Little Talks - A New Spin
by CCNilesBabcock
Summary: "Nightmares had been a common occurrence since C.C.'s disappearance eight months ago, something Niles still blamed himself for. But now she's back, and very much alive." What could have possibly happened to C.C.? And will Niles be able to help her in this time of need? *Read Inside for further info on why I have rewritten this story*
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hello, lovely readers! Now, I know I have published this story before, and I got so many lovely reviews from y'all! However, since first publishing this story I have developed a lot more as a writer, and looking back I think this story could be made A LOT better. Thus, I have decided to enlarge and re write this story. My bestie, TheCrownedLioness, is on board too, so it will be a joint project.**

 **Do enjoy and please review! We'd love to get your comments.**

 _ **Prologue**_

Doctor Dana Langston walked down the insipid hospital hallway to the blessed coffee machine. She was about to end her 72 hour-long shift, and keeping her eyes open had become a herculean task by itself. She hissed at the overly-bright lights that illuminated the corridor, finding them abrasive enough to bring on one of her migraines. The extreme January cold didn't help to make her feel better, either – it crept under her clothes, spreading across her skin like the lacy tide on a frigid winter beach.

There was a blizzard raging outside, one so strong that the familiar sight of New York's dirty streets had been almost erased. Dana could see so from the transparent double doors that were a few feet away from the coffee dispenser, and part of her wished she could be snuggled under the warm covers of her bed, reading a book and having some hot cocoa. She looked at her clock – it read 3:00 am, almost time to go home... Well, she'd probably have to wait until the blizzard had toned down a bit, no one in their right mind would go out during it!

The smell of substandard coffee soon loitered inside the ward, and after tucking her change inside her pocket, Dana finally allowed herself to sit down on one of the homogeneous plastic chairs that were lined against the dull beige walls. She focused her tired eyes on the flickering screen of the old TV set hanging from the ceiling; the commercials had begun – short, attention grabbing and required no intellectual effort to be understood. If she was lucky, she'd be able to spend the last half hour of her shift sitting there, without needing to move – after all, her patients were already stable and asleep, and there had been no emergency calls. She really needed a rest, for she could already feel the pain of one of her tension headaches radiating around her entire head; she needed to close her eyes, just for a second, and wait until the Tylenol she had taken a few minutes ago made effect.

Dana had almost dozed off when she heard a faint rapping noise coming from nearby. The blows were paused, and seemed to be progressively losing strength, and it took a second for her exhausted mind to even register that the noise coming from the glass doors in front of her. She lazily stretched in her chair before opening her eyes.

The sight she came across with made the much needed adrenaline course through her overworked body.

Just outside the door, there was a blonde woman lying on the cold, hard ground. Judging by the intense shaking, her blue lips and the lack of colour on her face, she was probably suffering from hypothermia – which was not surprising considering she had ventured into the blizzard wearing only oversized flannel pyjamas, slippers and a robe. She did also look malnourished and far too skinny for her height – not to mention the protruding bones that were easily distinguishable despite the clothes she was wearing.

Dana immediately sprung out of her chair, ran to the doors and dragged the semi-conscious woman inside the hospital. Although the doctor was horrified by her clearly life-threatening condition, she knew exactly what she had to do. She swiftly took her cardigan off, and then proceeded to wrap the woman with it, thereby beginning the long and tedious process of raising her body temperature.

"Hannah!" Dana screamed, "Hannah, get your ass over here immediately!"

A petite, brown-haired nurse rushed into the ward, and gasped in horror when her eyes saw the poor woman that Doctor Langston was holding against her body. "W-wha- what happened? Did she get here walking?!"

"Yes, she did! She is suffering from Hypothermia! Go get me all the blankets you can lay your hands on! Then bring a gurney and doctor Jacobs."

The nurse nodded and ran away to complete the instructions she had been given by the winded doctor, who was now looking for a pulse. Luckily she found it – it was faint and paused, but it was there.

"Holy shit..." Dana muttered to herself the moment she removed the drenched pyjama pants. There was a trail of uncountable bruises and abrasions all over her legs, which the doctor soon discovered were mirrored on her arms and torso. "Who did this to you?"

The doctor hadn't expected an answer, hence her being startled when the woman laying on her lap opened her eyes and began talking. Dana couldn't understand her, for the woman's voice was low and faint... As though it were trying to escape from a prison deep within her frail body.

"Who are you, miss? Do you know where you are?"

"B...Babcock," the woman choked out. "I... C.C. Babcock."

"Your name is C.C. Babcock?" the doctor tried again, sighing in relief when she spotted Hannah bringing lots of fluffy blankets with doctor Jacobs hot on her heels.

"Y-yes... I was k-kidnapped... 23rd of May..." C.C. whispered before closing her eyes once again.

Dana's head was reeling. Had she just said 23rd of May? That was 8 months ago! "Miss Babcock, please, open your eyes," Dana pleaded as she, Hannah and Doctor Jacobs placed the woman on the stretcher and used the blankets to bundle her up.

"Call Niles... I... wanna... Niles..." C.C. rambled, not opening her eyes. She was too tired, and very much in pain – a nap, she thought to herself, she needed a nap. Everything would be fine after she'd had a nap.

"Who is this person? Miss Babcock? Speak to me!" Dana ordered her, pushing the gurney through the long hospital corridors.

"Niles... Sheffield butler... I... need him...call Niles... I need Niles."

She was finally safe – or well, as safe as she could be considering what had happened. C.C. welcomed the darkness that was slowly consuming her, and Niles was the last thing in her mind's eye before she fell into oblivion, finally losing the battle to remain conscious.

* * *

'Another nightmare' Niles thought when he found himself sitting on his bed, gasping for air. Nightmares had been a common occurrence ever since C.C.'s disappearance eight months ago; he still blamed himself for that...

The last time he had seen her was when he had woken up in a hospital bed after his heart attack. His cruel prank had been what had made the blonde socialite flounce out of his room after having smacked him with the bouquet of flowers she had bought for him. He remembered he had been quite pleased with his joke... until the woman had never reappeared at the Sheffield's mansion.

No one knew what had happened to her nor where she was, and every day Niles had prayed to see her standing at the other side of the door, wearing one of her haughty smiles and looking as radiant as always. But as months went past and there were no clues of her whereabouts, Niles feared that she'd either never return or that the police would eventually find her body.

Guilt was eating him up like a raging fire engulfs dry wood, scorching the little hope that his heart was desperately trying to hold on to. He had cried over her so many times, he had wanted to scream and kick and scratch until she reappeared... but she hadn't.

He was lucky that the phone had woken him up, for the nightmare he had been having was the worst yet. He rubbed his eyes and scrambled for the phone, wondering who would be inconsiderate enough to call at 5 o' clock in the bloody morning.

"Sheffield residence?" he rasped.

"Yes, my name is Doctor Dana Langston, from Lennox Hill hospital. Am I speaking to Niles Brightmore?"

Niles' heart skipped a beat. Hospital?! What had happened? "Yes, this is him speaking."

"Excellent. You are listed as C.C. Babcock's emergency contact, and we need you to come down immediately."

Had Niles been standing up, he would have surely collapsed onto the ground. He could feel the bottom of his stomach dropping and cold sweat running down his back. "Did you just say C.C. Babcock? She is there?! W-what happened to her?"

There was a silence at the other side of the line for some seconds, something that gave him the clue the news he was going to hear weren't going to be nice...

"Yes, she's been admitted here. She arrived barely two hours ago, by foot and suffering from severe hypothermia – which was no mystery seeing as she was clad only in flannel pyjamas. We don't really know what happened to her, but I must insist on you coming here before we discuss her medical condition. The good news are that she's alive."

Niles dropped the phone to the floor, pearly-shaped tears gliding down his wrinkled face. His head was swimming, and a thousand and one questions presented themselves in his mind. Whatever had happened to her had been bad, and although he was afraid of what he'd found once he had made his way to the hospital...

She was alive.

And that's the only thing that mattered.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 1**_

" _ **Kismet"**_

"Go to Hell!" she barked at the smirking butler lying on the hospital bed.

C.C. Babcock left Niles' room slamming the door behind her, not wanting to hear his reply. To say that she was angry was a gross understatement – she was positively livid! She'd had the worst couple of days of her life, been worried sick for that miserable excuse for a human being after having saved his life... and how had he thanked her?

 _By pranking her._

The zingers, the jokes, the quips and smart cracks – that, she could bear. But what she hadn't been able to abide, was Niles breaking one of the unspoken rules between them. Neither of them had any qualms about tormenting each other under normal circumstances, but C.C. had thought that they had a wordless agreement about coming to a ceasefire whenever one of them was seriously down.

 _'Well, apparently not,_ ' the producer thought as she walked down the hospital hallway while rummaging through her Chanel purse for her cigarettes.

What was enraging C.C. further was just how upset his heart attack had made her, and she couldn't quite understand why! Niles was her declared nemesis, for crying out loud! And yet she'd been terrified of losing him. It was the height of irony – she, C.C. Babcock, powerful socialite and businesswoman, had cried over a cash-strapped dogsbody that didn't give a damn about her.

Part of her knew – or, well, believed – that their relationship had been slowly changing over the last months. It was as though the zingers had become more playful than before; less hateful…

They'd been getting closer, had gone out on one or two dates, had danced together... and the first thing he did after his brush with death was prank her?!

Clearly, Niles didn't care about her. At least not the way she'd thought he did. Perhaps it had all been mere wishful thinking – perhaps the growing softness she'd seen in his eyes had been but a gross misjudgement of his real feelings.

Anyway, she didn't know.

She didn't care.

Not anymore.

 _This was war_. Plain and simple. He'd woken up a monster that she had subconsciously started to bury deep within her, and there would be hell to pay – C.C. was determined to make him just as bitter as she was; to make him feel just as miserable as she was. She would erect taller and thicker walls around her, and she'd attack him with no mercy...

He would never hurt her again; she wouldn't allow it.

The blonde sighed in relief when the entrance door came in sight – she needed to get out of there, and she needed to do it fast. Not that she would admit it to anyone, but she knew that if she'd stayed in that room for longer, she'd have probably ended up crying again. No, she needed to go home, pour herself one or two glasses of her best Scotch, and snuggle under the warm covers of her bed until she felt better. Perhaps she could take a nice vacation abroad – she'd need them now that Nanny Fine was dating Maxwell – or maybe she could pay a visit to her mother's summer mansion in California. She'd see...

Only after tossing the almost empty pack of cigarettes back into her purse, did the blonde socialite realise she had forgotten her wallet in Niles' room. She debated with herself whether she should go and get it back, but her wounded pride eventually won the day – she was determined to never step a foot inside the butler's room ever again. She wouldn't be able to stand the scornful sneer lighting up his face like the silvery incandescence of a lightning illuminates the dark sky during a storm.

No, she'd rather walk the many blocks that separated her from her penthouse than going back to that blasted room.

" _Perfect_. Just perfect," she grumbled as soon as she noticed the tell-tale black clouds of an upcoming storm. Knowing her luck, she'd probably be halfway to her penthouse when the storm commenced...

Could this day get any worse?

Cursing under her breath, C.C. began the long way back home, taking long drags on her cigarette every once in a while. It was strange – or rather, she _felt_ strange. She wasn't ablaze with anger anymore – no, it was as though her anger were slowly morphing into a profound and gloomy sadness. Her chest was heavy, and C.C. had the odd feeling that her heart had just been used as a punching bag. The urge to cry had come back full force, and the only thing that C.C. wanted to do, was curl up into a little ball and allow Earth to swallow her whole.

The producer came to a halt, allowing her arms to fall limply to her sides. Why was she feeling that way? Why did _he_ make her feel that way? The hurt of his actions had nestled itself in her heart, and it was slowly spreading through her soul like a deadly virus.

It wasn't fair! It wasn't fair at all! She wasn't supposed to be vulnerable; she wasn't supposed to care about him...

Yet she did. And it fucking hurt.

Her emotions were fighting an open war against each other – Anger wanted to hate Niles; to device a million and one schemes to make his life miserable. Sadness wanted to cry – scream and kick until there wasn't a single tear left in her body. Fear was constantly reminding her of how close she had been to losing him, and that she actually cared for the man that she'd openly claimed to despise for over ten years...

None of them could win, and the internal battle didn't allow C.C. to think clearly. Just like Artax, Atreyu's horse in 'The Never Ending Story', C.C. felt she was slowly drowning in – good God, how sickeningly _cliché_ it sounded – a swamp of sadness. It was as though her soul was slowly sinking into a formless nothing; a black pit of confusion and abstract fears... The despair she was currently experiencing was truly unparalleled, and the blonde wondered if she'd ever be able to understand what had brought this reaction.

As much as she wanted to blame her altered emotional state on seeing Nanny Fine and Maxwell snogging, a nagging voice that sounded awfully like Niles', told her that the sadness she was feeling was linked to the annoying butler rather than to Maxwell and Nanny Fine.

God, she desperately needed a drink...

C.C. had never been good with feelings, much less when it came to facing-slash-interpreting-slash-dealing with her own. She'd rather (and a lot sooner) drink herself into a stupor, thank you very much.

If only she could find the nearest bar to do that! But her moods were clouding it all over so much that it was hard to concentrate on the signs on buildings.

She marched her way down the street, so angry and so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn't see the large man coming towards her, holding a fresh coffee and a muffin in his hands. The pair collided into each other, his flimsy cardboard coffee cup folding up and spilling outwards, all over C.C.'s lovely light-blue jacket...!

She staggered back, gasping at the feeling of the still-warm liquid now soaking her through.

Yes. This day could get, and actually _had_ gotten, worse.

The producer stared down at her coffee-stained clothes before glaring daggers at the gaping man before her.

The suddenly very familiar-looking man. It only took a moment for C.C. to realise that she knew him. His name was Thomas Jones – he worked at the theatre with her, as a subordinate!

He had turned a deep shade of crimson, clearly realising who he'd just bumped into, and part of C.C. only wanted to scream at the man before continuing on her way home, via the nearest store that sold any kind of whiskey.

Perhaps she could vent some of the anger that was still burning inside her...and then probably end up giving him some kind of punishment at work to make up for it even more...

"I…I am so, so s-sorry, Miss Babcock!" he apologised, stammering over his words. He was probably (rightfully) fearing for his job at this stage. "I swear, I…I didn't see you!"

"Funny, I managed to realise that myself," C.C. hissed, shoving him aside with her elbow and shoulder to continue on her way. "And if it happens again, you can so kiss your job goodbye!"

She didn't even look over her shoulder as she yelled that. She was starting to need her drink more than ever, and it sounded as though – over the sound of her shoes stomping on the concrete sidewalk - she still had company. Another pair of shoes was coming up behind her fast, and it was obviously Thomas.

"Wait, Miss Babcock! Please don't go! Here, at least let me give you money for the dry cleaner!"

Now _that_ was a laugh – money for the dry cleaner? She didn't need money for the stupid dry cleaner! She was a millionaire for the love of God…

Had she not been so incredibly irate at every being on this Earth (and especially at a good-for-nothing excuse for a butler) she would have thought the gesture to be rather endearing, but as it was her only wish was to grab his muffin and smash it on his head. It would have been as good a substitute for the butler's head as anything.

She skidded to an abrupt halt and turned to face Thomas, who was trailing just a little ways behind her, "If you think I, C.C. Babcock, need the money of a mediocre minion, then think again."

Her words were spat – anyone in the vicinity could sense the spite and the boiling anger threaded in them. Anyone but Thomas Jones. The man, despite C.C.'s verbal onslaught, appeared unaffected, if still ashamed of what he'd done to his boss' clothes. He remained stood there, looking a lot like a scolded child, and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

God, C.C. was so going to make sure this burly idiot had the worst workday ever the following Monday…

But first, she desperately needed to get home – she'd get rid of her coffee-soaked clothes, get into her PJ's and try to quell her anger with a sad movie, a nice glass (or bottle…) of Scotch and a pint of cookies and cream ice cream.

"Can I at least drive you home, Ma'am?" insisted Thomas, "My car is parked just around the corner. It's the least I can do to… make up for my actions."

C.C. huffed to herself, thinking about it.

Well, it would get her home quicker than walking. Her feet wouldn't ache at the end of it, and it would give her a chance to chew Thomas out some more...

It could be part of his punishment. Not all of it, obviously, but part. And she'd get the double satisfaction of making him do what was basically a lackey's job by driving her somewhere, and getting to stain his car seats with the coffee that he'd dropped in the first place!

That settled it. Thomas was going to drive her home.

She looked him in his hopeful eyes with what she knew would be just the right amount of scorn, and she nodded.

"Alright. You can do that," she told him. "If you can manage to drive without crashing into other people who just happened to be going the other way, minding their own business!"

The man flinched, and she felt a little bit vindicated. Not that it was enough to get her to change her mind - he'd have a long way to go before he made up for ruining what might've been a salvageable day.

But he was starting down the road right that minute, if only because C.C. didn't feel like standing around, dripping coffee, any longer.

"Where's your car?" she asked – near demanded.

"Just around the corner, Miss Babcock, on Lexington Avenue," replied the man, pointing over his shoulder, "It is a block away, at the most."

That was close enough, too. C.C. wasn't exactly thrilled to have to ride whatever rattletrap this idiot had (she knew how much theatre assistants were paid and there was no chance in hell he could be driving something better than, perhaps, a battered Ford Fiesta), but it would make do. The ride home wouldn't take long and it would save her a lot of trouble.

"Fine, lead the way," she finally said to her employee.

"Yes, Miss Babcock, of course!" replied the man, nodding furiously as he began the way back to his car.

Irritatingly enough (and also showing just how little he knew her) Thomas tried to make small talk on their way to the car and, when the eventually got to it, on the way to C.C.'s apartment. His inane chatter drowned out the sound of the radio the whole time. Not that C.C. was listening to any of it. She was still too angry, the quiet music was inferior noise at best, and whatever Thomas had to say probably wasn't very interesting, anyway.

It'd most likely be about stuff he intended to do at work. But she'd already set it all up; she didn't need to hear it again from anybody – especially not from him. If it wasn't that, it would all be meaningless crap that people talked about when there was nothing else to talk about, like the weather, or things that had happened to them recently that the other person might find funny (but probably wouldn't) or how there was surprisingly light traffic for where they were and the time of day.

Not that she noticed how much traffic there was. Or what roads they were even on.

If she had, she would've noticed that, if they were heading in the direction of her apartment, they were taking an awful lot of weird turns, and going down a lot of streets that she wouldn't have remembered the name of if she tried...

It took stopping at a traffic light, and her fading back into the present moment, before she realised that something was wrong.

The street they were on wasn't familiar at all. It looked nothing like the buildings that surrounded her apartment, or even anywhere near it!

Were they even on the Upper East Side anymore?! There was nothing around that said that they were, and they could be getting farther away!

She turned back to Thomas, intending on asking him what the hell was going on, and she finally decided to listen in to the things he'd been saying, all without ever prompting her to reply.

"-and that's why I gave up trying there," he turned his eyes away from the road, giving her an intense look. "But, you know something? I've always thought you were much prettier than she was, anyway..."

...What? C.C. didn't think she could've heard him right! Why was he saying stuff like that, and-and looking at her like he was?! He couldn't be looking at her like she was a banquet and he was a starving man, driven mad by his own hunger...

And there was no way that he could've possibly said–

"You truly are a very beautiful woman," he told her, sounding more forceful this time. His hands were gripping the steering wheel too tightly, and he hadn't blinked once. But he did swallow audibly. "Very beautiful, indeed..."

The look and his words made C.C. feel like she was being choked from the inside-out, and Thomas noticed out of the corner of his eye that the lights had turned green.

He didn't drive on.

And C.C. had never felt more helpless in her life.

Thomas was already leering, and he reached out towards her, his palm heading for her thigh.

As soon as he touched her, instinct kicked in and C.C. yelled out, slapping his hand away sharply.

"Get your hand off me! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

That was it, she thought to herself. She had to make a run for it! She didn't care where she was, or how long it'd take her to get home – she was leaving, that instant!

Had she been more alert, and realised what was going on sooner, she would have had time to jump out of the car, to run back to safety. But the extra second that it took for her to reach the handle sealed her destiny.

It's funny how tiny little moments like this are the ones that mark a difference, and C.C. was going to learn that the hard way.

Before she realised what was happening, Thomas violently pressed a white cloth over her nose and mouth while he used his free arm to bring her body to his. The stench of chloroform soon climbed into her nostrils, and the effects were immediate – her extremities began to go numb, then her vision and hearing began to fail... she knew unconsciousness was only seconds away.

That didn't mean she didn't fight back – quite the opposite, in fact. Adrenaline was coursing through her body, and C.C. could feel the primal surge to flee giving her the strength that she needed to kick, scratch and even try to punch her employee-turned-attacker.

Curiously enough, as she fought, C.C. could hear a familiar voice in her head screaming at her to fight; it was dry and had a marked British accent, and it desperately pleaded that she fought until the very end.

 _"Try harder, kick harder... come on, Babcock, be the man I know you are!"_ it said encouragingly. C.C. knew it was a mere invention of her mind, but she prayed that it would stay with her until she'd closed her eyes.

And then it happened...

Overall, the struggle couldn't have lasted more than just a few seconds – she never really stood a chance – but she'd given a damn good fight. Just a mere instant before complete unconsciousness had set in, C.C. looked into her captor's grey eyes, and what she saw in them made her realise that whatever it was that he had in mind for her, would change her life forever.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 2**_

" _ **A Silent Ally"**_

 _Plop. Plop. Plop._

The first time it happened didn't even make C.C. stir.

 _Plop. Plop. Plop._

The next barely registered, either. But she did shift in place and groan painfully.

 _Plop. Plop. Plop._

Something about that time got into her still-aching head - maybe it was her mind slowly waking anyway, but she could finally register the source of the irritation, and she reached up and wiped her eyes with one hand.

Not that they opened afterwards. She still felt too weak to even try.

 _Plop. Plop. Plop._

She groaned again in frustration. If she felt better, she'd open her eyes and go in search of the dripping noise somewhere in the room, but that currently wasn't an option she could pursue.

Her body felt heavy – as though weights had been tied to her extremities – her head was pounding and she was suffering from a persistent nausea.

It probably was just a bad hangover, she thought to herself, and she'd soon open her eyes to find herself in her bed with an empty bottle of scotch lying by her side.

She'd done that more than once in the past. It had to be that again...

 _Plop. Plop. Plop._

But her logical mind told her to wait...if she was in her room, then where was that stupid, annoyingly loud dripping coming from?

It sounded like water coming from a faucet or a pipe, and if she was in her room, that noise shouldn't be possible. Perhaps it was coming from the bathroom? Had she left a faucet a little open in the sink, or the bath?

 _Plop. Plop. Plop._

Her slow-waking mind began to take in her surroundings as best they could, although she still had her eyes closed (they were still too heavy yet). Her other senses, not impeded by whatever was currently holding her eyes hostage, took over and did their best to piece together what they could with what information they had...

She could feel she was lying on a mushy surface – definitely a mattress, from the feel of the material. But it didn't feel like her own mattress...her mattress had clean, crisp sheets – this old thing was bare, and from the feel and an accidental smell of it, had a questionable relationship at best with cleanliness.

The room didn't smell like her room, either. Around her, there was a slightly unpleasant musty smell, like a lot of damp in an enclosed space. Her room usually smelled of jasmine and coconut, or at least those were the fragrances her maid used to perfume her bedroom whenever she cleaned it.

It was also quite dark, she could tell so by the perceivable lack of natural light around her – was it night-time already?

 _Plop. Plop. Plop._

There was something else there, too...a smell that wasn't exactly coming from the room she was in, but rather from under her own nose...it was as though the smell was stuck to the inside of her nostrils, and it was making her slightly sleepy.

Could it be...some sort of chemical?

A chemical spread on a white cloth that was shoved roughly onto her face, smothering and suffocating–

She opened her eyes and jolted upright with a shriek, "No!"

Memories from the last – hours? Days? Minutes? It didn't matter when they were from – they were swarming back into her mind; the collision, the coffee, the car...

The look on his face as he knew he had her in his grasp.

The chemical. Used to knock her out cold...

And as C.C. finally understood where she probably was, a desperate wail left her trembling lips.

Now she remembered.

She had been kidnapped.

Kidnapped by Thomas Jones – that weird, sadistic creep from the theatre!

How had she not known that he was a weird, sadistic creep?! Up until the second it clicked, he'd just been some menial loser that she'd had to deal with!

Again, her judge of character had always been poor, at best.

Still too weak to move much (and head reeling due to her current situation), C.C. blinked a few times, trying to get her eyes used to the darkness that enshrouded the room. It wasn't easy, but little by little she was able to make out a few indistinct shapes around her. A few more minutes on, and she could distinguish most of her surroundings.

At the side of her mattress, there was what appeared to be a small and rusty desk lamp; C.C. could just about see the small, black switch at its base, and even though there was a part of her that was certain the lamp wouldn't work, she reached out her hand (which was a herculean task in itself, given how weak she felt) and pressed on its switch.

 _Click –_ and, almost as if by magic, light flooded the room.

Part of C.C. wished it wouldn't have.

Not when the sight she came across with made her want to weep.

The room (if it could be called that way) she found herself in was a minuscule space – it was ten feet wide and ten feet long, at the most. It seemed to have no windows or doors, and it didn't have any furniture apart from her mattress, a set of small clear plastic storage drawers with a few clothes in them, a seemingly functioning toilet, a sink (complete with a small mirror) and, opposite to her mattress, a small folding table with its matching folding chair. Upon said table lay her reading glasses, a small notepad with its matching pen, a few books, a Sony Walkman and a number of CD's.

C.C. couldn't help but let a small out a small wail of despair – this place, with its pristine white walls and hard concrete floor, was maddeningly asphyxiating and perversely disorienting by design. In there she couldn't have known whether it was night or day, and since it had no windows or doors the isolation was total – sound and natural light were as foreign to that room as poverty was to C.C.. But what upset her the most was the deafening silence that seemed to swell inside the room. It almost felt physical, as though she could touch it with her bare hands – as if it were pressing against her; choking the will to live out of her.

C.C. had the feeling that a person could forget their own name if they spent enough time in that room, and she feared that would be her case.

Until then, the producer had never appreciated the simple things in life: the sun, the blue sky, the pleasant summer breeze …

Now, the simple memory of them had become almost precious. She didn't know when (or _if_ ) she'd see the light of day again, let alone ifshe would survive the week! Memories were, as of that moment, the only consolation she possessed.

Tentatively, C.C. stood up and looked around the room, trying to find a way out of it. At first glance, the prison looked just like a hollow concrete cube but, upon closer inspection, C.C. discovered there was a little trap door in the ceiling. She couldn't reach it, of course; it was obvious that she'd need a small ladder to get to it. She briefly considered standing on the folding table, but part of her knew it wouldn't stand her weight, and the chair was simply not enough leverage to try and reach the door.

But, perhaps, if she piled the books on top of the chair she might be able to just about reach the trap door!

However, the moment she moved forward to get both the chair and the books, a rattling sound and the feeling of something heavy attached to her right ankle stopped dead in her tracks and look down – there was a big metal shackle around her ankle, she soon discovered, and said shackle was connected to a long chain, which in turn was attached to another metal shackle that had been screwed into the floor, making any attempt to escape an impossibility.

It was also in this moment that she became aware that she was no longer wearing the clothes she'd been kidnapped in – instead of her smart light-blue Chanel Jacket, white ruffled shirt, black pants and high heels, she was now wearing an oversized old Disney T-shirt that reached her kneecaps, grey sweatpants and was barefoot. The red nail polish she had been using had been removed from both her fingernails and toenails, too, and she suspected so had been her make up…

Of all the horrible things she'd learnt in the past minutes, this was probably the worst.

There was a sense of utter helplessness – a feeling of having been violated and vulnerated, that she simply couldn't shake off. The mere thought of her attacker having undressed her was its own kind of sickening, and it made C.C. fall to her knees and dissolve into sobs.

 _This was Hell._

The producer felt like a scared child, and had a desperate urge to call for her father; she remembered that, when she was little and had a nightmare, Stewart would always sit on the edge of her bed and would stroke her hair until she'd fallen asleep again...

How she wished he could do that now!

" _Don't cry, Babcock, you'll melt!"_ the familiar British voice suddenly said, surprising C.C. by how clearly it sounded in her head. _"You have to be strong."_

Huh...?

Hearing it made her sniff, and blink away some of the tears. She wiped away a few more with her wrist, as she straightened herself up, a little confused by the sudden...company, if it could be called that.

" _Don't pretend like you didn't hear. I know that deafness is common at your age, but you can't apply it to me, or to something like this. And I make better company than most, for your information."_

Niles. The voice was very clearly, and without a shadow of a doubt, the butler's own.

Wha...

How the hell could she be hearing the butler so very clearly in her own head?!

Was she going nuts already?! She had to be, didn't she? The whole thing had obviously pushed her over the edge!

" _Well, I always knew that you were a few sandwiches short of a picnic, Babs. But here, for once, that has nothing to do with me."_

C.C. blinked slowly. The...the voice wasn't there because she was losing her mind?

" _You're as sane as anybody,"_ the voice said. _"It's not every day that I say that and mean it, but for my own sake, I'd prefer that you stayed that way_."

The voice sounded like it was telling the truth, for once.

So if she wasn't going insane (which she still doubted because honestly, who wouldn't in her current situation?), then where the hell had that stupid, pathetic, good-for-nothing butler tones decided to come from?!

" _You tell me, Babcock - I'm just along for the ride, as far as I know."_

C.C. groaned to herself, and tried to ignore whatever completely wrong implication went along with what the voice had just said. She didn't have time for this - she didn't have the willpower or the strength to be dealing with Niles in her head at the same time as...as...

As being trapped in this hellhole, with no means of escape and the knowledge that an utter creep had put her there...

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair! Things weren't supposed to be this way - she was meant to be waking up in her own apartment, in her own bed, getting a coffee or something to eat if she felt like it!

And now she didn't know if she'd get to do any of that again...

" _Ah, ah! Babcock, it's no time to have a pity party – you have enough problems as it is, and you need to focus,"_ nagged the voice.

Easy for…him?... it?... to say! This imaginary Niles was not the one locked up and at the mercy of a complete madman!

" _Now, that was uncalled for. I may not be here physically, but I am here all the same!"_

Yeah, and wasn't that just a blessing!

" _I'd say there was no need to be sarcastic, but I'm more than a little relieved to hear it,"_ the voice said - there wasn't any strong feeling there, apart from an overwhelming sense of telling the truth. " _It shows me that you're still you in there."_

C.C. kind of wanted to ask what that meant, but in her heart, she already knew.

And, as if proving the voice right (that she was still herself), she got back to her feet.

" _That's more like it, Babs!" the voice encouraged. "See what you can do, if you try hard enough?"_

God, she really could almost see his face in front of hers - probably grinning away smugly at his own little patronising joke, even though he had no right to even think of looking down on anybody else!

She should really want to wipe the self-satisfied look off his features. And she did want to - how could she want anything else, when it was the butler's fault that she'd ended up down here in the first place?!

If he hadn't been such an idiotic, irritating, sorry excuse for a man, she wouldn't have left the hospital!

She wouldn't have been angry when she did, either, and her survival instincts would've kicked in better!

"This is your fault, leave me alone," she muttered to herself, praying that that voice would shut up.

" _Never, Babs, I am part of you. Always was, always will be._ " the voice replied.

"Go to Hell..." she wheezed, the memory of his bright blue eyes and cheeky smile piercing her heart like bullets.

" _I am already there... with you. I'll endure it with you."_

"Leave me alone!" she yelled, slamming her foot against the ground. Why did it have to be his voice the one that she heard? Why had her twisted mind decided that his was the voice that she _needed_ to hear? She hated him! Yet – in an almost masochistic sense – Niles' voice brought a faint sense of relief that she desperately needed.

 _How ironic._

"Why is this happening to me?" the blonde whimpered, pressing her palms against her puffy eyes.

"Because I chose you," a third voice responded.

C.C. could feel her body stiffen when the slimy voice of her kidnapper echoed inside the tiny room. She hadn't realised when the man had opened the trap door over her, and she certainly didn't know for how long he had been observing her.

Regardless, she still had the presence of mind to realise she couldn't show fear or weakness before her captor – not if she wanted a chance at living.

"Why?" she demanded to know. "Why me?"

Thomas lowered a ladder through the hole, which slammed fast against the concrete floor, climbed through, pulled the door securely shut behind (above?) him, and then made the rest of his way down.

And he came closer. Not very close, but enough to make C.C. want to step back.

"Why not you?" he grinned, shrugging like it was obvious. "I told you before, you are an extremely beautiful woman - I saw that right from the moment I first saw you. It...it struck me, and I began to watch. The more I saw, the more I liked - not just your face or your body, but the very way you breathed, moved and spoke, like you knew that there was no one more important! You were the queen in that place. You commanded the entire room, unafraid and utterly powerful! And you did it all with that...incredible mind of yours - your thoughts must be fascinating...so very fascinating."

C.C. felt her skin crawling, but decided that it was best to let him continue speaking.

For the time being, anyway.

"I watched and I took note, every day, of what you were doing and how you were doing it. After that, it didn't take me long to start...having dreams, of what life with you could be like," he said, clearly relishing it all. Though it didn't take long for an angry edge to come through. "But I knew that you'd never see me, no matter how much I saw you. How could a big and powerful producer, high and mighty as a Greek goddess, ever stoop to look at a humble theatre assistant?"

From the way he was talking, C.C. thought the man anything but humble at this point.

But his speech wasn't over, and he started to wander the room. He gestured to the walls and the furniture with pride.

"So, I built all of this! For you," he declared, turning back to her. "For us! So we can be together! Of course, there are things that still have to be worked on - but a pillar of the finest marble can easily be shaped into the perfect statue, by the right craftsman..."

Thomas then came a step closer, hand stuck out and moving closer towards her waist, "And I am the right one for you, Bab–"

He never got to finish his sentence, or touch her waist, for that matter.

C.C.'s instincts had finally kicked in like she'd wanted them to. She reached out with her own hand, and slapped him in the face, the noise reverberating around the little cell and making her captor stagger.

It was only once she'd done that, that she realised there was nowhere to go from there. No way out. The trapdoor was too far away, and she was chained to the wall...

And Thomas, taking his hand away from his smarting, bright red cheek, turned rage-filled eyes on her.

She hadn't wounded him in any way, really. She hadn't knocked him unconscious or inflicted damage that might have given her the upper hand.

All she'd done was given him an incentive.

"I used to like the fight in you," he told her, voice quickly becoming frightening. He wasn't blinking again, and he was walking in her direction with purpose. "But here, we're going to have to squash it out!"

He then slapped her hard enough across the face to send her to the floor, crashing to her knees. C.C. cried out in pain, but it fell on deaf ears as Thomas' palm smacked into her other cheek as well, leaving her head reeling and her face stinging.

The tears were starting up again...she couldn't let him see...

He then aimed a painful kick at her legs, listening to her cries, "That's what you get for defying me! Apologise and you might be spared another!"

C.C. let her anger at his words show in her eyes when she looked up at her. It was easier not to cry when she found something to be angry about.

And she was angry at his insinuation that she had to obey him. Like she was inferior somehow.

She was not inferior. And she was not sorry.

"I'd rather starve than apologise to you!" she shouted back.

Thomas looked like he was about to hit her again, but he stopped himself. He lowered his hand, and straightened up, all the while looking like he'd just...made a decision...

"Fine," he told her, nodding. "Then you will. There will be no food in this room for a week – let's see how obedient you are after that."

He turned on his heel and stormed back up the ladder. Once at the top, he threw open the trap door, climbed out, and pulled the ladder back up as well.

The door rattled in its frame with how hard he threw it back down, and afterwards C.C. was left in complete silence again.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 3**_

" _ **Gone"**_

"So, basically, that's bedrest, frequent fresh air and exercise, and a new diet. If you stick to that, there shouldn't be a lot of trouble, if there is any. Have you got all of that, Mr Brightmore?"

"Yes, Doctor, I believe so."

Niles said that as quickly as he could without looking like he was trying to rush off. Not that he was probably succeeding - he was certain that he looked as agitated as he felt. He also got the feeling that it was starting to have an effect on the other patients in the waiting room-slash reception area, making them a lot more nervous to go in than he truly was to come out.

Of course, he had a reason to be agitated. Not that any of them knew that, and not that the doctor would consider it more important currently than what he was telling the butler.

Well, that did make some sense, in truth. He'd obviously be more concerned about giving instructions to a man who was leaving hospital after a heart attack than what said man was intending to do once he'd left said hospital.

"Of course, you're going to be on medication for a little while as well," he added, delving into his pocket and retrieving a small bottle of pills, which he tapped with one finger.

Niles tried hard not to sigh at the sight of it. He still couldn't believe that it had ended up this way!

He didn't remember the actual event very well yet - there were...significant gaps in the memory, from zinging Miss Babcock and not quite hearing her probably-burning reply, to feeling a pain in his chest and waking up in hospital to the sound of Miss Fine finally having the kind of alone time with Mr Sheffield that could actually be considered game-changing.

Actually, "alone time" might have been something of a stretch, considering they were only behind a privacy curtain, but still, it was a step in the right direction.

He felt a pang of guilt shoot through him, thinking about how that meant at least two people in the house were heading in the right direction, relationship-wise...

The doctor was still talking, though, and Niles supposed he should be listening. He only had to be there a little while longer, after all.

"Remember to take them regularly," the doctor said, handing the pills over. "If everything is going well after you've used up this bottle, you won't need to be put on a prescription for them."

Niles was certainly hopeful that he wouldn't need to take any more than the doctor had given him. He didn't want any more trouble, and he wasn't expecting any. Not from his heart, anyway.

Not physically.

He took the bottle, pocketed it and thanked the man. After that, he tried to leave, but of course he had to wait to sign the release forms, and schedule an appointment to see the doctor next week.

It felt like an eternity before he was finally allowed to "get in a taxi and go home to start healing".

That was what they all believed - all the nurses and doctors who'd assisted in his recovery. Everybody who'd helped him and only wanted the best for him, now that he was on the road to full health.

But the minute the cab driver asked him where he wanted to go, he immediately gave him the order to head to Park Avenue.

As the city rolled past the window, he watched for the building that he wanted to get to. Needed to get to, he told himself (if nobody else).

He hadn't been able to think of going anywhere else for...well, the entire awful, wretched week.

He thought it hadn't been able to get any worse when he had played that prank on Miss Babcock, showing her exactly what was going on between Miss Fine and Mr Sheffield by getting her to pull back that privacy curtain, and smashing any lingering dreams she had into pieces and forcing her to look somewhere else.

He hadn't expected him to come and visit him after that. Why would she? He'd gone too far that time, even for him! He regretted beyond words the fact that he'd made her leave, so humiliated and upset, and probably angry too...!

But when he'd (casually) slipped the fact that she hadn't been around again into the conversation when his employer had come to see him some days later (by way of suggesting that someone should check on the other producer, in case the lock on her cage had gotten stuck), Maxwell had only been able to frown in thought and concern.

"I'm not sure what to do about C.C., Old Man - she hasn't been into work for days. She hasn't answered any of my calls, either. You...you don't think she's upset, by what she saw here?"

Niles was more convinced that his part in the prank, not Maxwell's, had been the straw that had broken the camel's back. Caused her to go off by herself, and not let anybody know where she was going, or if she was alright...

She'd been nothing but kind to him in those few moments, and he'd destroyed it all in seconds.

The idea that she hadn't been into work, or told Maxwell she was going to be away, lingered in his mind, and festered into a concern that he couldn't shake, until there was no greater thought in his mind and he had to rush out of the cab, barely remembering to pay before he started to make his way to Miss Babcock's building.

He was determined to go see if she was alright, and if she was, to see what could be done to get her to return to the company. He'd build himself up for the biggest, most prostrating and heart-felt apology, and hope that it was enough.

He didn't know if it would be, but he could hope.

Niles gave Miss Babcock's doorman a courteous nod as he walked into the building, and made a beeline for the elevator. He insistently pressed on the call button, even if he knew doing so wouldn't make the thing move faster. It was mainly a way to channel his own growing anxiety, and have something to do with his hands apart from chewing on his nails.

He repeated this pattern when he eventually stepped into the elevator, only this time it was Miss Babcock's floor button that he obsessively pushed.

His eyes were glued to the overhead car position indicator as they moved up, all the way to the 19th floor. It almost felt like it had taken him an age, but eventually the elevator stopped, the doors opened and Niles was able to dash out of it and towards Miss Babcock's apartment.

He couldn't help but think just how many times he'd been there before – to hand her a contract, to pick her up, to deliver a package or envelope Mr Sheffield needed her to see…

He'd never thought he'd one day come to apologise.

It wasn't like them, apologising – theirs was an ongoing feud that overlooked pleasantries and was happy to sidestep any need for an apology. They gave as good as the got, and whenever tactical retreat was needed, it was done in silence. They didn't hold their losses over each other's head – there was no fun in that. It was better to rub the victories in, and gear up for the next showdown.

But, perhaps, this time he'd overstepped a line.

There was a sort of tacit understanding that, in certain situations, there had to be a ceasefire. Usually they involved either grievous bodily injuries (and he supposed a heart attack counted as one) or the death of a loved one (such as when Sarah Sheffield had passed). They had no qualms about drawing the battle lines, but he was aware there were situations that simply called for them to put a brief halt to their game.

He'd overlooked that, and was tremendously sorry for it.

He'd gone too far, even for him.

All the previous momentum that had pushed the butler to her door seemed to wash away the moment he actually had to ring the bell – his hand hovered over the button, twitching and hesitant.

And waited.

And waited some more.

And the only thing he heard on the other side of the door was Chester yapping away – yapping like he needed the person on the other side of the door to get inside, right that instant.

Just how angry had Miss Babcock been?

Certainly angry enough to not be replying to him at that moment.

Maybe she might change her mind if she really got the gist of how sincere he was...?

He left the doorbell alone and started knocking on the door instead.

"Miss Babcock? Miss Babcock, it's me, Niles!" he called out. "Listen, I...um...I'm sorry...so very sorry, about what happened in the hospital! I didn't mean to embarrass you so much - I know I went too far. May I come in? I...I really think that we should talk about this..."

He'd never said that before, either. It was almost an unestablished rule that they didn't talk.

But it didn't seem to matter that he'd said it - there was no reply, even to shout out about how unlike him that offer was.

He knew it. She obviously didn't want to talk to him. And perhaps he had to just accept that fact.

He took a step away, letting his eyes fall to the floor as his foot smacked into a...a newspaper. Several newspapers, still folded and stacked in a pile, as if they'd been freshly delivered.

Narrowing his eyes, he crouched down and peered at the dates on each of them.

They were all the newspapers from the last week. That was...odd. Why hadn't she brought her newspapers in? Surely it made sense to do so, even if she was upset!

Unless...unless something else was going on. Unless she was more than just upset in there...

Feeling his chest starting to tighten, and after one final just-in-case ring of the bell, he reached under the welcome mat for the spare key to the front door and went to let himself inside.

He shouted out loud to warn that it was only him as he did, "Miss Babcock, I'm coming in!"

He opened the door and was immediately greeted by a thankful and whimpering Chester, as well as the stench of pet urine and faeces. The power of it nearly made him gag, but he couldn't leave the door open in case the dog got out.

Instead, he crossed to the living room, neatly dodging and tiptoeing around piles of things that he absolutely did not want to step in or on, in order to open the windows.

Only then did he stop and take a proper look around the living area.

The filthy living area, apparently in large part thanks to the dog - on top of general clearly human-made mess, there were stains everywhere, from where he'd...been!

All of it needed cleaning up right away, which was a bizarre thing to have to think - he could've sworn that Miss Babcock had a maid that she hired over the phone, whenever she needed someone to come in and clean? Had she not been able to get in contact with her for some reason?

It still wouldn't make sense, though - Chester might've had an automatic food dispenser, but the producer still had to walk him. If she was around to do that, then he wouldn't have had to go all over the penthouse floor...

There wouldn't be dust everywhere, either. The kitchen wouldn't have unwashed dishes in the sink when he looked, and there wouldn't be half-washed laundry growing sort-of-musty in the washing machine...

This was getting weirder by the minute, and the clenching feeling in Niles' chest had branched out into his stomach.

"Miss Babcock...?" he tried calling out again.

She had to reply that time, didn't she? If she was in, she had to come out and demand that he get the hell out of her penthouse!

But she didn't.

Was...was it possible that she'd gone away somewhere? Left the dog for somebody else to find, and just taken off? If she was in a truly horrible mood, he could imagine her doing that to escape and bring back her peace of mind.

There was only one way to find out if she had done that - gone to some exotic getaway for a while - and he knew where to go to check up on it!

He went to the desk in her home office, and he pulled through legal documents and licenses until he found what he was looking for.

Looking for, but not hoping for.

His heart sank when he found her passport. If that had been missing, at least there was a chance that she'd simply gone abroad...

She wasn't there. The house had clearly been empty for days. Something bad had obviously happened, and no one had been able to stop it.

And Niles was starting to feel like he couldn't breathe.

Miss Babcock was gone, and he had no idea what had happened or where she could possibly be!

The sheer panic and complete terror of it all was killing him, and he couldn't be sure if it actually would happen or not.

That only made him more afraid. His chest had hurt like this before. He'd been short of breath like this before, too.

The only thing that was left was the actual passing out. Niles honestly wasn't sure what would happen to him after that.

Not that he cared about it, either. Not when Miss Babcock had to be out there, somewhere! Someone had to know where she was!

Someone would've seen something...where she went and why!

He decided to start with his best bets – her family, friends, and work connections. It was just lucky that she kept a copy of her address book in the top drawer of her desk.

He phoned everybody C.C. knew. If a name was in the book, from "Ashton, M." and "Jones, T.", all the way through to "Zimmerman, C.", he called. He asked if they'd seen her. Told them to keep an eye out when the answer came back negative, and to call him on this number...

He repeated that pattern until he'd made his way through the whole book, his despair growing with each page that he had to discount.

Perhaps it would all be a big mistake. Perhaps she was safe and sound, tucked out of sight to things she didn't want to see...

He had to find out, though. The not knowing was weighing on him like a ton of bricks, and someone added to the pile with every piece of new information, and the more time went along, the more he was convinced that she wasn't alright...

It killed him all over again to realise that there was no longer an entire address book to go through, keeping him from calling Miss Babcock's family.

And he wasn't even lifted at all by the sound of the familiar, friendly voice that greeted him when he'd eventually plucked up the courage to phone the first one - her father.

"Hello?" came Stewart's still-happy, uninformed voice.

Niles had to prepare himself before he said anything. He didn't want to be giving the man this news, but what other choice did he have?

"Hello, sir, it's Niles, the Sheffield's butler?" he said in reply. His grip on the phone was too tight, but he couldn't let go.

"Niles! It's wonderful to hear from you," the older man sounded like he was smiling. He wasn't going to be, soon enough. "Is something wrong? How can I help?"

Niles felt his insides clench – of course there was something wrong. Incredibly wrong, at that. But then again, how was he supposed to tell this man that his treasured daughter (because he was well aware C.C. was Stewart's favourite child) was nowhere to be found?

He didn't have a clue…

He supposed he had to simply gather his courage and go through with it – say the truth, no matter how horrible, as it was.

"I… I am afraid that I have some bad news, sir," Niles stuttered, running his free hand through his hair, "And I believe you need to sit down before hearing them."  
There was a brief pause at the other end of the line then – a horrible, ominous silence, which was soon broken by Stewart clearing his suddenly dry throat.

"Bad news? Is… is C.C. alright?" asked the old man, a certain degree of urgency to his voice.

There it was, Niles thought, the dreaded (although completely understandable and expected) question. He had no way to soften the blow – no way to spare Stewart from the worry and fear he'd soon be experiencing. But every second he withheld the truth, was a second wasted.

He had to speak.

"No, sir, she isn't," he eventually confessed, "She… she's missing."

In the silence that followed, Niles' brain conjured its own twisted mental images - all of how Stewart could possibly be reacting.

He could be about to raise his voice. To demand to know everything and vowing to come tear the world apart for his missing little girl.

He could be about to break down in tears, maybe falling to his knees and perhaps trying to deny that it was his little girl who'd gone. All the while he'd know that it was the truth, however.

His mind hadn't fully expected and prepared for the answer that Stewart eventually gave.

"Did you call everybody?" he asked, his voice rapidly growing stern and serious. "All her friends? The people she works with at the theatres? Are the police involved yet?"

Niles wondered if perhaps they should be, by this stage, and he cringed to himself for not even thinking about it before calling everyone else.

"I can answer 'yes' to all but the last one, sir..."

He expected the growing anger that followed his statement. He knew he hadn't done enough, and Stewart's ire was deserved.

"Why not?! How long has she been missing?!"

Niles couldn't have felt any smaller when he finally managed to choke out the answer.

"A week, sir..."

The Stewart that followed on the phone was not the Stewart Niles had met.

"What?!" the older man shouted, rage and terror combining into one and launching themselves into an attack at the butler. "Why the hell not?! What've you been doing for all of that time?!"

It took Niles all of his willpower not to shout back. He deserved the anger, for not doing enough by suggesting someone come to check on her beforehand - not properly, anyway. He should have just been a man and owned up to some of his feelings - said he was worried, and asked somebody to please go and check on her...

He could have done something about it. But he hadn't.

It was his fault that things were this bad in the first place, and he hadn't even been able to make amends.

Instead, it looked like he'd made it all worse.

"I'm sorry, sir," Niles knew he probably wasn't forgiven but he had to apologise anyway. "I've been in the hospital, but I could have easily-"

"Wait a minute. Hospital?" Stewart's one word question wasn't as loud as his shouts had been. The tone had also softened - perhaps out of surprise and concern. "You've been in the hospital?"

Niles sighed, "Yes, sir...I...I had a heart attack just before your daughter disappeared."

Not that she would've disappeared, if he'd just accepted the truce he should've recognised and the kindness that he threw away...

He really was a bastard of a man, wasn't he? She'd saved his life and he'd repaid he with possibly the lowest blow he'd ever delivered. He'd upset her and caused her to run out of the room, towards danger and away from her loved ones.

It was his fault.

Everything was his fault…

"Oh, I… I am sorry to her so, Niles," said Stewart, bringing Niles out of her self-deprecating thoughts. "And… and I apologise for my… outburst–"

"No, sir, please don't" Niles interrupted Stewart; God know he wasn't worthy of any kind of apology from the Babcocks when he was the one to blame for their child's disappearance. "There is nothing to be sorry about. I should have asked someone to check on her sooner, and raised the alarm by reporting her missing, something I plan on doing now, sir."

"Hm. Well, even still, I shouldn't have been as harsh as I was," Stewart said. "And good - report her right away. We don't have any time to lose."

Niles was more concerned about the time they'd already lost - the time he'd cost them - but he wasn't going to waste any more by arguing.

Stewart was Miss Babcock's father. It was only right that he took the lead in how things were done.

"Yes, sir," he nodded automatically.

"Call me back once you've done that," the older man then added. "Tell me everything that goes on and what the police say. There's gonna need to be constant communication between us and them. I will be flying in within the next few hours, and we can all meet and...and well, get a sense of what we have to do next."

Niles agreed with the plan, and figuring that there was nothing else to be said but an awful lot to be done, they said their goodbyes and went about their tasks.

Niles hated to leave Miss Babcock's apartment looking such a state, but there were more important things than cleaning to be done. If he had time, he said to himself that he'd return to do it later. Chester could come with him and stay at the mansion for the time being, but he'd have to wait in the car whilst Niles was in the police station.

He grabbed the little dog, securing him to his leash and heading out of the apartment. He took the spare key with him, not trusting leaving it - besides, the police might need access as well.

All the mention of the police kept making his head swim, but he had to focus.

The road ahead was going to be long and difficult, and it was only just beginning.

But it would be more than worth it, if it meant bringing Miss Babcock home.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 4**_

 _ **Devastation**_

Chief Detective Chris Lane was a woman of few words. Anyone who knew her would have told you so, and added a comment or two about the veteran officer's steely demeanour. Tall, curvaceous and with a headful of short grey hair, Lane was one of the most well-known and respected figures in NYC's law enforcement. She'd started her career very young – many people had discouraged her from doing so, claiming she was too pretty, too feminine, too soft-spoken to succeed in a male-dominated field such as the police force.

But she'd certainly showed them all.

Beneath a seemingly calm and unperturbable demeanour lay a dauntless warrior, capable of squashing down enemies and cutting them to size without batting an eyelid. She was righteous and kind to those he deemed deserving of said kindness, but she could be ruthlessly brutal with those that she considered enemies. Regardless, her work ethic was exemplary. Lane was the epitome of professionalism – she was punctual, obedient, responsible, an avid self-discipline cultivator and she always found the time to further develop professionally.

Such a character is seldom looked over by employers, so it hadn't taken long for Lane to climb up the hierarchy at a vertiginous pace. She was both feared and respected, which was just as well because that's exactly what Lane was after.

She was a fair boss, but she expected nothing but efficiency from her employees. Her bureau ran like a perfectly oiled machine; no mistakes, no mishaps. She couldn't afford them, not when her enemy was crime itself.

But, perhaps the oddest thing about Chief Detective Lane was that, despite a lifetime in the force, she was still one of the most kind-hearted and attentive individuals in it. She took her time to soothe and console the victims of crimes, she spoke with the criminals to try and encourage them to do better, she was relentless when it came to getting a crime solved…

She was simply devoted to her work, mind and soul.

It was hard, sometimes, knowing where to draw the line. Her children and husband understood that her job was demanding and were supportive of her, but she knew she should try and spend more time with them, but given her most recent case she doubted she'd have the opportunity to do so anytime soon – C.C. Babcock, prominent producer and entrepreneur had gone missing.

Barely a week ago, a middle-aged British man had come up the steps of her department to report her as a missing person, claiming she'd last been seen over a week ago, and that no one, friend or family, had any knowledge of where she could possibly be.

Niles, which Lane had soon discovered was his name, had told her about their more than… peculiar… relationship, and how he'd played a particularly nasty prank that had prompted the producer to storm out of the hospital he'd been in, upset and enraged in equal measure. She'd left her wallet behind and had never come back to get it. That combined with a silence that stretched for days had pushed the butler to go looking for her, and instead he'd found a more than worrying scene – abandoned pet and house, and a producer that had apparently vanished into thin air.

She'd been told by Niles that Miss Babcock's father, a billionaire and immensely powerful business tycoon, would be flying in to try and aid in finding his child, something he'd done the following morning of C.C. having been reported missing.

Phone calls had been made, information gathered, and friends, family, co-workers and employees had been interviewed, but all that had left Lane with more doubts and suspects than she could have possibly imagined. It had quickly become apparent that Miss Babcock wasn't a particularly friendly woman (she only had a small group of close friends), but being a socialite and businesswoman meant she had a vast number of acquaintances, most of whom disliked her or held no regard for her except that of a convenient business partner. She was well respected at work, but her ways and brash demeanour had gotten her to be dubbed "The Bitch of Broadway" by those in the business, something that had greatly amused the Chief Detective.

Of course, people had immediately dubbed a strong, powerful woman who knew what she wanted a 'bitch'. Lane knew that feeling well – the ruthlessness needed to get a job done, all the while being told that she was too bossy or aggressive, too loud or too pushy, too much or not enough, but continuing to make the climb to the top anyway.

She respected Miss Babcock for her own climb. It was like Everest for a lot of women out there, even if they did have a head start in terms of finances.

Lane hoped to at least make Chief of Department before she retired. And she was going to do everything in her power to find the producer long before that happened. She'd gotten involved with the case personally because she'd felt such a strong kinship with the woman. Usually her subordinates would work on cases like this, but it felt too special to pass up.

She was due to meet with Niles again, and with Miss Babcock's father and brother, too. The older Mr Babcock had already held a live news conference, in order to urge anybody who could have any information as to his daughter's whereabouts to come forward.

It had been something of a reach to imagine that someone might come forward from that, given how many people lived in New York and how many people were probably not watching at the time. But, astonishingly, it had happened twice.

A homeless man who'd been going through the garbage, had come across the producer's discarded driver's license, and a jacket that matched the description of what she was wearing when she'd disappeared. He'd happened to see the conference on the television of a local diner just before, when he'd stopped by with what change he'd had that day to get a coffee, and after he'd found the items he'd come to the police. Not too long after that, a woman had come to the station, claiming to have seen a woman matching Miss Babcock's description getting into a car with a man and driving off.

In turn, Lane had alerted Miss Babcock's father, brother, and Niles, that they'd had some developments in the case, and now all three were on their way to her office, to see where the investigation could go from there.

They certainly all walked into Lane's office with a sense of purpose, even if they were also clearly exhausted from one too many sleepless nights.

Atop Lane's desk sat a coffee jar and four mugs, one of which had already been used and had the imprint of Lane's mauve lipstick on its rim. By their side were a number of empty Marlborough packets and a few ashtrays, all of them littered with cigarette butts and ashes. Stress was unavoidable in her line of work, so a vice or two helped endure her gruelling workhours.

"Welcome, Mr and Mr Babcock, Mr Brightmore," said Lane, gesturing between the three men and the chairs around her office desk, "Please, do take a seat."

The three man did so immediately after, only taking a moment to shake Lane's hand.

"So, Chief Detective, what's the update?" Stewart asked, anxious to find out what could have brought them here.

Noel could only agree, leaning across the desk, "Yes, has there been any big news? Has someone seen my sister?!"

Niles felt his heart leaping at the very thought of a positive sighting, but he said nothing. He knew that if he tried to open his mouth then he'd probably come apart at the seams with how much he wanted to express - how much he wanted her to be alright, and to have been spotted walking around out somewhere in the city, right as rain...

Looking as though she was holding back a sigh, Lane went into her bottom desk drawer, and pulled out two things that crushed that want into dust, and caused all their hearts to sink.

Noel and Stewart focused on the first item; C.C.'s purse, both of them trying not to tear up at the dreadful idea of why she wouldn't have it with her...

Niles, meanwhile, stared holes into the jacket, feeling the cracks spread through his heart.

It was very same jacket she'd been wearing when she'd left the hospital...the last thing she'd been wearing...

"These were found in the garbage by a member of the public, and someone else came forward to say that they saw C.C. leaving with a man and getting into a white Ford Bronco," Lane explained. "The fact that she was seen getting into a car, her purse was found discarded, complete with a driver's license inside, and it was accompanied by something identifiable as one of the last things she was seen wearing, it is...well, it's unfortunate but safe to assume that this had at least some planning to it. This, with everything else we have, leads me go conclude that C.C. was taken. As such, we're changing this case from a Missing Person's Report to the crime of kidnapping."

Stewart let out an involuntary choked cry, his hand flying to his mouth being the only thing to stop him.

But it didn't stop the tears from starting to come, or the fear taking over his heart.

His C.C...his Kitten...someone - some man - had taken his Kitten...

Noel gripped at his father's shoulder, trying to comfort him but not managing it - he knew how desperately he was failing, because of the mist covering his own vision as he imagined his little sister - who he'd spent all his time with playing games, and taking to horse shows - alone in the clutches of a stranger, cold and frightened, not knowing if anyone was coming to save her...

Niles' thoughts were much along the same bleak, sorrowful lines, only his were weighed down further by the knowledge that it was all his fault.

It was his fault they were seeing her jacket and her purse, complete with driver's license, tossed into a dumpster with the obvious hope that they'd never be found again. His fault that the two Babcock men were starting to cry, heartbroken that their daughter and sister had vanished with practically no trace, other than seeing her go off to an unknown (but probably awful) fate with a stranger. His fault that they were there at all, because if it wasn't for his own stupid need to prank her at all times, she wouldn't have stormed out of that hospital!

She would still be there, with them, alive and safe. And things might've been better than ever, between the two of them.

And that was the thought that sent the tears overflowing in his own eyes, too...

"I understand that this is hard, but we have a facial composite, based on the description by our witness," Lane said, turning to the top drawer of her desk.

She opened it and brought out a piece of paper, before sliding it across the desk to show the men.

Niles, along with Stewart and Noel, peered at the hand-drawn image of a man with a strong jaw and apparently dark hair.

And as the butler looked at the picture, he thought (along with the burning hatred at the thought of that being the man who had taken Miss Babcock away) he felt a pang of...recognition?

Yes… yes, it definitely was a pang of recognition! He'd seen this guy somewhere! But where? The picture ran a bell – actually it was more like several bells – but he couldn't quite pinpoint who this person was or where he'd seen him before. It made him want to tear his hair out, and it only fed the feeling of worthlessness and guilt that had attached to his heart. Was he so useless that he couldn't even help in the investigation? Was he that much of a waste of space in this world?

He knew the answer to those question was a certain "yes".

It should have been him suffering the one suffering at the hands of a deranged lunatic, not Miss Babcock. It should have been him who was taken, not her.

And yet, this was his reality.

"We checked surveillance cameras near the spot the witness said she was taken," added Lane in a soft voice, "We got footage of her getting on the car, but we couldn't see the plate, or a clear image of our suspect. Does this picture ring a bell to any of you?"

It certainly did ring a bell to him. He was just kicking himself and his useless brain because he didn't have a concrete idea of who the man was! If he could say, he could tell Lane, and then Lane could go get a warrant to search the man's place of residence!

Then...then, they might find Miss Babcock...

But he had to speak out anyway, didn't he? He knew that he didn't know fully who it could be, but the fact that he recognised the man had to be better than them having nothing whatsoever.

It probably meant the circle could be narrowed, somehow...

So, he spoke up, hoping it really would be enough to provide some sort of clue, or next step in the investigation.

"It does to me," he said, watching as Lane's eyes left the paper and went to him with interest. Suddenly, he didn't feel quite so determined. "I...can't say for sure who he is, but I have definitely seen him somewhere before..."

He cringed internally after that, overcome by the shame of not being able to do any more to help. Him simply recognising the man from somewhere probably wasn't enough, considering the amount of people he saw during the day.

He really was useless, wasn't he?

"You…you have?" asked Stewart, tears still running down his wrinkled face and tired eyes being the silent witnesses of him having spent endless sleepless nights.

Niles nodded. "I think I have, sir, but I don't know who–"

"There are ways to fix that," interrupted Lane as she reached for the phone, "We don't exactly expect you to instantly remember who this person is. However, would you be willing to go over a few pictures?"

"Absolutely," replied Niles, instantly getting to his feet – he was ready to do anything and everything if it meant getting Miss Babcock back.

"Excellent. Now, gentlemen, I will ask my assistant to bring me the pictures of our many suspects, and we can begin," she said as she dialled in the number of one of her interns, "I suggest you get comfortable, this will take a while."

She then put the phone to her ear and Niles went back to his seat.

He settled onto the chair and shifted around a little, even if he knew he didn't really care about how comfortable he was. Miss Babcock was probably feeling far worse, wherever she was, so him being sat in a slightly-too-hard chair felt like the least of the things he could worry about.

Especially when Stewart and Noel appeared the same way. He'd be letting the team and the search down if he started worrying about his own needs. They were all there for the same reason, and whether it was comfortable or not, they were going to do everything they could to help. Nothing was more important right then, than what they were about to do.

They didn't care how many pictures of how many potential suspects it took.

They'd go through each and every single one, until they found the one that could lead them to bringing C.C. home.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 5**_

 _ **Count Your Losses**_

She knew that she was dreaming – or better said, that she was _daydreaming_. But was she truly certain that it was daytime? There was no way to know. The outside world – that world that now felt like a distant dream – was achingly foreign to her, and it had been weeks since the last time she had actually seen it. Night and day were indistinct to her; there, in her small prison, time was meaningless and so were mundane terms such as night or day. C.C. had no way of knowing what day it was, how much time had passed or if she was supposed to be asleep or awake – her captor had made sure to deprive her of that. She suspected it was all part of his plan to force her sanity to slip through her fingers as she lived in an eternal standstill.

In a sense, C.C. sometimes felt her prison was hidden away in the far end of the universe; in its deepest, darkest corner, where even time forgot to pass by. She sometimes struggled to understand that the aforementioned belief was a mere illusion caused by her inhumane confinement, but to the horror of the small portion of her mind that was still trying to find a way to escape, it was easier to cope when she actually allowed herself to believe those illusions.

Between the maddening loneliness, the silence and having been starved for a long period of time, the producer had very little presence of mind to think hard about anything. She had refused to even touch the few forms of entertainment that had been given to her, choosing to plunge into her vivid fantasies instead. It's truly formidable what the human psyche can do when pushed to the extremes, and one of the many wonders her brain had managed to create so as not to go insane just yet, was permitting her to vividly remember the sound of piano music.

Her dark cellar, where there was no noise apart from her faint breathing, was filled with a non-existent music almost daily – filled with an invisible melody that only inhabited her mind. But it didn't matter, she could hear it as clear as the sky in a summer day, soothing her soul from the sadness that was slowly tearing her apart. The ghost of a smile rested upon her lips every time she created her very own imaginary music, and the only movement she made – mainly because of the weakness caused by starvation – was the delicate dance of her fingers feigning to play the keys of an invisible piano.

Today she had chosen to think about one of Chopin's Nocturnes – Op. 9: No. 2 in E-Flat major. Andante, if she was correct.

She knew she was, though; it was all in her mind, after all.

C.C. remembered playing that particular nocturne on one Christmas evening many years ago – she must have been about sixteen years old at the time, and her mother had insisted that she should delight the family with one of the many songs her private music tutor had taught her. Of course C.C. had been delighted to show off her impressive ability as a pianist, and she could almost hear the impassioned applauses and beaming smiles that she had received from her family.

She'd loved playing the piano as a teenager, for music had always made her feel free. Many times, as her fingers danced expertly over the keys of her father's Steinway piano, she'd close her eyes and imagine she was flying over the city, observing it from a lone white cloud. She'd imagine the sun warming her skin and the breeze blowing softly against her face... _that was freedom_. Deep within her, C.C. still held the memory of that precious feeling of liberty and well-being that tingled her body whenever she played the piano, and now – being locked up inside an underground prison – that was the only thing she could hold onto to try and remind herself what freedom felt like.

She hadn't allowed herself to cry since the day of her abduction, nor had she caved in to Thomas' demands. The sick bastard had come down to her cellar every single day with a plate laden with food. He would sit before her and ask 'Are you going to obey me?' as he toyed with the food, enticing her senses. But she had always replied 'no', of course, so her captor would simply eat the food in front of her before beating her up. He would always leave her be afterwards, trapped in a maddening silence and body bleeding and aching. Sometimes he would allow her to take a bite of the food, just to torment her by not giving her more of it after she had refused to obey him.

The blonde was quickly learning that spite and stubbornness were going to take her nowhere in that situation, but then again, she was far too proud to give in to Thomas' wishes. Part of her feared that if she did so, she'd betray who she was...

But there was a harsh reality – there was only a limited amount of time she could go without ingesting food, and she was running out of time. C.C. supposed he wouldn't let her starve to death, but she was not sure how much longer she could hang on. For starters, the lack of food meant lack of energy, hence the simplest tasks (such as getting up of the mattress to get some water) representing a gargantuan effort to her. She had been unable to move since she had woken up, even if her mouth was dry and both her empty stomach and her desperate thirst were demanding her to get some water.

She opened her eyes, breaking the spell that kept her immersed in a bubble of imaginary music. The room was dark except from the faint light coming from the little lamp that had been given to her, and it was also a bit messier than when she'd first woken there – there were a few clothes on the floor and, a few days ago, she'd thrown the books against the walls in a rage, scattering them across the little cellar as she demanded to be let out. She wanted – no, scratch that, she _needed_ water, but the few steps that separated her from the sink would surely feel like kilometres to her.

The producer whimpered, slowly rolling on her mattress. The pain of hunger was a feeling that had become macabrely familiar to her, and although she knew a temporary solution was to fill her stomach with water, she couldn't bring herself to move. Briefly, her mind was assaulted by thoughts of just letting herself wither away until she fell into a deep sleep and never woke again…

 _"Babcock, get a grip!"_ that familiar British voice said from the back of her mind.

The producer groaned, rubbing her eyes before attempting to sit up. Ever since she had been abducted she hadn't been able to get rid of his voice, and it was starting to irk her. Strangely enough, however, his voice was usually the voice of reason, and she had begrudgingly accepted that listening to its advice was the best course of action in most of situations. In her heart of hearts, she was also aware that the voice brought a strange form of consolation, for in a way it was like she wasn't so alone anymore. Not that she would accept it, though, she was still angry with the butler, and the notion of his voice being comforting was completely infuriating.

Nevertheless, she supposed that she had to try and do what it said. She had to get a grip. No matter how inviting just letting herself slip away would be, it wasn't gonna do her any favours in the long term.

Part of her mind tried to argue back about whether or not it would really be worse than where she currently was, but she immediately snapped back that at least this situation was potentially reversible. As long as she was alive to see it happen, there was always a way out.

Her attempt at sitting up was successful after she thought like that.

" _That's more like it - there's the Babcock I know!"_ it was back again, and it seemed to be cheering this time.

Scoffing or groaning was impossible when her mouth was so dry, and C.C. didn't know if she had enough strength to roll her eyes, so she just thought the annoyance instead, to see if that was successful in shutting the voice up.

" _You're not going to shut me out, Babcock,"_ came the irritating reply that told her she'd been unsuccessful. _"You're going to go get that water that you want."_

'I can't,' C.C. thought back, leaning against the wall, 'I'm too tired…can't move…'

" _Aren't you at least going to try?"_ the voice said dryly; she could almost see his unimpressed look – the crushing disappointment in his face. _"Or are you just going to give up and let him win?"_

C.C. didn't reply to that – she told herself that she just couldn't deal with him right then, but deep down she knew he'd hit the nail right in the head. Even in circumstances like this, saving her pride came first and foremost, especially where Niles was involved.

" _Hm, I see…"_ Imaginary Niles hummed, " _You are giving up then. Never thought I'd live to see that! I mean, since you are a succubus and all that, you are supposed to run on spite. And we both know you have a lot of it to keep going for another millennia or so."_

"And what the hell do you know?!" she rasped, her eyes feeling hot as tears pricked in their corners. "You are not even real. And the real you is most probably slacking off at the mansion, celebrating I am gone."

There was a pause, which C.C. used to wick away her tears. She could almost see the piercing glare Niles would have been giving her at that moment.

 _"That's not true. And you know it,"_ it replied in a clipped tone. _"The real me cares about you, and so do I."_

"Bullshit! But I'm not discussing this with you. Can't you go back to the hole you crept out of? I have better things to do than listening to you."

 _"Last time I checked, dying of thirst is not what most people would define as "better things to do"."_

C.C. was sure Niles would have said that with his characteristic unamused expression.

"I am not like most people, so buzz off."

 _"Do you even qualify as people?"_

Great. Now even a creation of her stressed mind was teasing her. If the real Niles knew about this he'd be laughing his ass off. It's not like she could find out, though. "Shut up and disappear. You are a creation of my mind, you should do what I say."

 _"On the contrary! Seeing as the real me rarely does what you want, it wouldn't be fitting for me to do that, would it? We are stuck together whether you like it or not, Babs."_

The producer groaned. "Is there any way I could get you to shut up for a while? You are annoying me. Big time."

 _"Go and drink water. Then I'll shut up."_

C.C. glanced at the sink. It was just so far away... her legs were weak, and she doubted they'd be able to carry her weight for more than a few steps before giving out. It was true, she needed water, but she was not willing to subject herself to the humiliation of falling to the ground as she tried to get it.

"No," she lay back down on the mattress. It hurt too much to move, she couldn't do it... she had no strength.

The voice didn't say anything for a few minutes, and C.C. slowly began to drift back into one of her daydreams – this time her song of choice being Mozart's sonata N 14, 'Moonlight', in C-sharp Minor.

 _"I knew it,"_ the voice suddenly spoke again and laughed sardonically. _"I was right about you. You are a coward – you've given up."_

The words struck her harder than they had done before, and that officially did it.

She didn't know why that was what pushed the whole thing over the edge; it could've been the voice calling her a coward; it could've been the declaration that she'd given up; heck, it could even have been the fact that the voice had declared itself right in the tone Niles always used when something typical had happened to appeal to his sick sense of humour.

She wasn't sure. All she knew was that she wanted to – no, _had to_ – prove it wrong. Whatever that took. She had never shrunk from a challenge made by Niles before, back when he could hide around the mansion and call out his little zingers to her whenever he wanted – this would be just like that.

It was much easier to think of it that way, and with an unbelievable ache coursing through her entire body, she forced herself to sit up again.

She was going to show that jumped-up little butler. She'd made the first hurdle - now she needed to tackle the second, which was actually getting to her feet.

The humiliation of falling, she realised, wouldn't be anywhere near as bad as letting the voice think it was right.

Groaning, she pressed her back against the wall and, gathering all her strength, she attempted to stand, always aiding herself with the wall. She couldn't help but hiss at the pain caused by the countless cuts and bruises on her body; she was disturbing them as she moved.

Not that she was intending on letting the pain stop her – no, sir. She was going to stand, even if it was the last thing she ever did.

It took her some tries, but eventually she managed to get to her feet. She tried not to feel humiliated the many times she stumbled or gave false steps – she told herself that it didn't mean anything, and that she couldn't lose heart, but her cheeks still took on a faint reddish hue.

" _Come on, Babcock, even a limp man without his crutches could move faster than you do!"_ teased the butler.

She would have replied to that with an equally scathing jibe, but she didn't have the energy to do more than one thing at the same time. It was either bickering with a made-up voice in her mind, or actually getting water. She was already panting as it was, heart hammering in her chest, and she was sweating profusely – she simply couldn't afford to do anything but move towards the damn sink.

No matter. Getting water would shut the butler up nicely.

The producer took a deep breath and steadied herself. She had to prove him wrong, she had to show him (or perhaps herself) that she was still the same fiery and powerful woman she had always been. Even if she was locked in a cellar and – at least for the moment – slowly starving to death.

" _Come on, Trollop,"_ Niles' imaginary voice encouraged, " _prove me wrong…"_

'With pleasure, Bell Boy,' C.C. thought back as she moved forward, supporting her weight against the wall.

 _"Is that the best you can do, Brunette?"_

If it thought that was all she had in her – that as far as she'd gotten was really the best she could do, it was so wrong, she told herself. She wasn't going to quit where she was - she wouldn't let the butler have the satisfaction of her giving up on something he'd said she couldn't do. She'd never do that!

Never in a million years. Not even if he technically didn't know he was in a competition with her, and was being represented only by his voice...

His voice alone was all she needed.

It fuelled the fire just enough, to keep her heading towards the long-awaited sink. The place was almost like an oasis now, in the bleakest and most hopeless of deserts...

And she was going to make it there, no matter what that bodiless servant threw at her next.

" _We both know you can do better than that, witch!"_

Yes, yes she could.

Using the last of her strength, C.C. took a deep breath and crossed the small room in three big strides, collapsing against the sink when she got to it. Luckily, she had enough strength to hold herself upright by clutching at its edges, and once she'd rested for a moment (and after her heart had stopped hammering in her chest), she reached out and turned the water on.

C.C. didn't even try to use the small cup Thomas had left for her atop the sink – no, she bent down and began drinking from the faucet. She frantically guzzled down mouthful of water after mouthful of water, relishing in the heavenly relief caused by clear, fresh water rushing down her dry throat and into her empty stomach.

Even if hunger was still gnawing at her, like a ravenous bird of prey, having her stomach filled with water helped take her mind off it. Temporarily, at least. Being hydrated was helping her mind to become a little bit clearer, too – her body felt less heavy, more alert, even energized…

This, she had to admit, was a nice change.

As she came down from the high caused by the sudden (if very much welcomed) intake of copious amounts of water, C.C. had to take deep, calming breaths. There was a sense of satisfaction to having been able to quench her thirst, but the exhaustion and weakness were starting to get to her again, and she couldn't help but wish for her "bed" (if that raggedy old thing she'd been sleeping on could actually be called bed). She had to sit down soon, or her knees would give out beneath her.

Slowly, she staggered back to her mattress and collapsed on it with a loud, satisfied sigh.

She had to admit it – now she was feeling considerably better than she'd done moments ago. However, she soon realised, there was a downside to no longer being lost in the haze of her hunger-driven lethargic state – _boredom_.

" _Well, perhaps you ought to do something about that?"_ came that familiar but _oh-so-frustrating_ voice.

It might've been encouraging a moment ago, but now he was pushing it with how teasing it sounded.

" _Only because we both know that it riles you up, Babcock,"_ the voice definitely sounded like it would've had a smirk attached. If it had had its usual stupid face. _"Summons up the blood, as it were. And, I thought it might summon you up, to go and grab one of those books from where you took your anger out on the wall. But, I suppose that I was wrong and you are going to give in after all..."_

C.C. let her eyes scan the room, until she found the books scattered across the floor. They were too far away to read the titles without her glasses on, but currently she'd read anything as long as it had more than one sentence on it.

She could get at least one of those books, couldn't she? She could do it to spite the voice again!

Even if nothing else, doing something to spite the butler's voice made her feel a little more...alive.

After taking a few more steadying breaths, she eased herself back to her feet.

"I'll show you," she grunted with the effort. "I'll get one...I'll get 'em all, soon enough..."

This time (much to her chagrin), she didn't find it in her to stand up, but she made do by getting on all fours and crawling towards the books. If someone had told her two weeks ago that she'd be dragging her weak and malnourished body across the dirty floor of a small cellar where she was being kept captive, she would have laughed in that person's face – what's more, she'd probably suggested that they considered voluntary admitting themselves to a psychiatric hospital. But, well… here she was.

Life had a twisted way of showing how much of a bitch it was, didn't she?

It felt like an eternity before she made it to the scattered books, but when she did, her arms and legs were shaking. She had to slump her petite body against the wall, but she had the satisfaction of actually having made it to where she wanted to be. She only had to make a little extra effort to reach out for her glasses, which were soon perched on the bridge of her straight nose.

There were ten books in her cellar. Two of them were cooking manuals, and the remaining eight were, weirdly enough, storybooks.

Her love for fantasy novels was a side of her personality that she kept well hidden; she'd never carry around the book she was reading when she was out and about, and she'd made it a rule to never discuss fantasy with other people. She supposed that came from her own mother ridiculing her spending hours poring over the pages of books like "Lord of the Rings" or "The Neverending Story". B.B. had put it in her head that that was not the kind of literature a young lady should read.

Not if she didn't want to be perceived as "geeky".

Lucky for C.C., she'd never heeded her mother's advice, and she'd amassed a more than impressive collection of fantasy novels. One of her most treasured possessions was a deluxe set of Lord of the Rings signed by Tolkien himself; it had cost her about thirty grand, but she didn't regret her purchase.

How she wished she could be at home, sat on her sofa, a mug of (spiked) hot chocolate beside her and a nice book in her hands.

Instead, she was huddled in the corner of a dark cellar, wearing oversized clothes and slowly starving to death. The only thing her fantasy and her reality had in common, was books.

That much she could have.

Gently (and moving extremely slowly so as to conserve energy), she reached for the books and examined their covers. Some of them, she knew, and she was especially pleased that, among the "selected" assortment of reading materials, was Hodgson Burnett's "The Secret Garden". She remembered feeling a special kinship with the ugly, unloved Mary Lennox – just like the sour protagonist of the book, C.C.'s parents had been mostly out of the picture during her formative years, she'd been looked after by an army of servants, and she'd been described by many as spoiled and conceited. She hadn't had many friends, either, and she remembered she'd daydream of finding her own secret garden.

She remember skipping along her mansion's gardens as she repeated Mary's rhyme in a loop:

" _Mistress Mary, quite contrary,_

 _How does your garden grow?_

 _With silver bells and cockle shells_

 _And marigolds all in a row."_

It was...a nice memory to have, really. But it all seemed so long ago now, even if some of the feelings were the same.

Now, like then, she longed for a garden. But she was also longing for sunlight, and grass, and trees and plants. Those weren't things that she'd lacked as a child - she'd just been hoping for something special.

C.C. was beyond hoping for special, at this stage. She knew she wouldn't get it. She'd learned a long time ago how the world really worked, and that secret gardens just weren't something that little girls got. But she was still hoping for ordinary - the usual bushes and trees that people had in their yards, and that grew in parks and squares.

Plants of any kind. All of which she was sorely lacking down where she was, in the depths of Hell.

Sighing to herself, she picked up the book and began easing herself back against the wall. She needed to conserve energy, if she was going to make it back to her mattress...

But the book was just as much of an incentive as the voice was.

"Really? You'd do it for a book just as much as you'd do it to spite me?" the voice asked, feigning being hurt. "Well, now I'm insulted..."

"Shut up and let me read, Dickon wannabe," she grumbled as she opened the book and began to read.

Surprisingly enough, the voice obeyed, perhaps having realised that it had achieved its purpose of actually getting her up and doing something. It was only fair anyway — he'd promised he'd shut up if she did what he'd asked of her. She'd been true to her end of the bargain, now it was his turn.

In the silence it was easier to read, at any rate.

As page after page were turned, and C.C. was soon deep in the wild English moors, with its deserted plains and howling winds. She was soon Mary herself, skipping all over Misselthwise and following the red robin.

It was her prowling the Earth and planting seeds.

It was her running free, instead of being locked in her dark, empty prison.

And she was happy there. For the first time since she'd been stuck down there, she found something to be happy about, and to get lost in.

That was, until the trap door being thrown open snatched her straight back out of it. With a loud gasp, she shrank back against the wall, slamming down her book and keeping her eyes fixed on the feet descending the ladder into the room.

The bastard was back, and C.C. knew exactly why he'd be there. It must've been about his usual time to come down and taunt her with a plate full of food, before the usual beating...

Sure enough, as soon as he was fully through the trap door, C.C. could see that in his hands he was holding a tray.

And even before C.C. saw the meal, she could smell it.

Since she'd had the water, her mouth was hydrated enough to start to salivate. The smell of cooked chicken floated through the air, and she inhaled deeply. Her stomach rumbled loudly in response.

She was going to have to give way today. If she was going to survive, she had no other choice...

She had to eat. And she didn't think she could survive another beating.

He set the tray down on the table, and sure enough there was a cooked chicken breast on the plate, along with mashed potatoes and a side of peas. He'd also brought an apple and an orange, bread and butter, and a bar of chocolate...

He smirked as he saw her staring, "Like what you see?"

He'd said it that way deliberately; it didn't take a genius to work that out (as was evidenced in that a half-starved person who was now occasionally talking to a voice in her head could figure out what he was doing). But that didn't mean she had to respond the way he wanted her to.

Of course, she knew she had to be careful, but she still remembered how to be tactful - years of being a businesswoman hadn't completely left her.

"The food does...look good," she replied, not yet moving from where she was still pressed to the wall.

Thomas seated himself at the table, clearly ready to eat the meal all by himself, if he thought that was the route she was going to choose.

"You can have it, if you do as I say," he told her, hands heading for the cutlery he'd also brought down. "Are you going to obey me?"

The word very nearly made her cringe internally. She was a powerful Broadway producer outside that room - she bowed to no one, flinched to no one, and obeyed no one but herself...

But she wasn't outside. And inside the room, she was none of those things, was she? It didn't matter what position she'd held, or how much money she had. She was stuck where she was, with no way of getting out and only one way of surviving.

She wasn't intending on saying no, even if it went against everything she believed about herself to say yes.

And the voice came back to her, reminding and encouraging.

"You're only doing it because you have to, Babcock! Eat, and then worry about it afterwards!"

He was right. She could have her pride when she wasn't in danger of starving to death.

But she still couldn't look anywhere apart from the floor when she answered Thomas' question.

"Yes...I will obey you."

A smile - triumphant and pleased - spread itself across Thomas' face. He rose to his feet and stepped aside, gesturing to the chair.

"Then, you may sit," he told her, a hint of smugness shining through. "Take the chair."

Slowly, and with every cell in her body both praising her for getting food and screaming at her for giving in (to do God knows what, it reminded her), C.C. left her book and half-crawled, half-walked to the table.

She might have just gone from being in the frying pan to basically taking a swan dive into the fire, but she needed to eat.

And all of the food looked so magnificent, how could she not? Once she was sat, it was right there in front of her!

And he'd said, at long last, that she could have it!

Eagerly, and after looking it all over one more time to make sure it was real and to decide where to start, she made to pick up the fork-

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

Thomas' voice made her start, and she grabbed her hand away from the plastic fork. He obviously didn't trust her with metal cutlery.

Or, apparently, with starting her meal. What was the big idea about all of that? He'd said she could have it!

She looked up at him questioningly, to find him staring back down at her.

"You will ask permission to eat," he said. His voice had an edge to it, and made it sound like he was leaving no room for argument. "Is that clear?"

C.C. wanted to argue back. To fight, and kick, and scream...it was what she normally would've done, had she been literally anywhere else...

But none of those things had gotten her anywhere so far, down there. She couldn't handle another beating and she needed the food. What else could she sensibly do there, other than fold?

Nothing, as much as it killed her to admit.

So, gritting her teeth to combat the anger building nicely, C.C. replied, "Yes, sir...may I start eating now?"

Thomas grinned horribly and took a step back, "You may."

He watched her as she started on the food; C.C. could feel his eyes boring into her, but she tried to continue as though she wasn't bothered by it.

Even if the whole scenario terrified her, and he had won this latest round by getting her to obey.

Her survivor's mind just kept on reminding her that it meant she'd gotten to eat.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 6**_

" _ **Lives Left Behind"**_

Maxwell Sheffield was tired.

Actually, it was more like he was exhausted, and it was only eight a.m. on a fine Monday morning.

Honestly, part of him simply couldn't believe that, up until three weeks ago, this had been his life — waking up early in the morning, a nice breakfast, a brief meeting with his business partner, and then work at the theatre until the evening.

Not anymore.

Today marked the third week since C.C. had gone missing. The third week of near-constant worry, countless phone calls, visits to the police and an absentminded butler that spent more time at the police station than at home. Not that he blamed him; C.C.'s disappearance had hit everyone like a blow to the gut, but in Niles' case it was more like he'd been gutted. Maxwell had never seen him so distressed — he was a shell of the witty man he'd once been.

Niles might've been impacted upon until he was all bent out of shape, but he wasn't the only one in the house that had been, either. The entire family had been entirely thrown off-course by C.C.'s sudden absence from their lives.

Miss Fine was the most open about it, even without intending to be. She often started crying before she could help herself, mostly when someone accidentally mentioned C.C. or something related, from where her terror was so great. And she might have come downstairs every morning looking like she wanted to start a new day, but Maxwell saw the dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights, and that couldn't be completely hidden by makeup.

The children all had their own ways of...not coping, but thinking about and letting the news act upon them. Maggie had tried at first to insist on calling all of her friends, to see if anybody knew anything. But, once that idea hadn't been able to come to fruition, she mostly kept to herself and kept quiet about it. Brighton had been much the same, though he tended to sit around the house instead, not really talking to anyone.

Little Gracie had been the most quiet of all on the subject. She'd only spoken about it once, very quietly to him after she'd needed a hug one time.

She said she missed Miss Babcock, and she wanted her to come back.

Max couldn't help but agree, and had hugged his youngest girl until they'd both managed a few tears.

Everybody had known that even if C.C. was...interesting to get on with, at times, she had been a day-to-day member of their household. Family, almost. And not having her there anymore had taken some of the life from the place...

Maxwell truly didn't know how he was going to cope with the business, either. He wasn't proud to admit that he'd left much of the day-to-day running to C.C. (considering it was his company and his surname came first in the title), but she had simply been better at the process than he was! She'd been more business-minded, she'd known how to keep deadlines...

He shook that particular line of thought out of his head. He didn't like the way everything was making him refer to C.C. in the past tense.

It wasn't right. And it implied that he'd given up already, which certainly wasn't true!

Not that it was easy to communicate that, given the decision he was about to make. But he could hardly continue with the production either, considering the circumstances (even if C.C. might have disagreed).

No, the musical had to be cancelled. There wasn't anything else to be done about that, and he had gone down to the theatre himself to see to it that everything was brought to an end smoothly.

Just like his very much missed business associate would have done.

Glancing one more time at his wristwatch (which now read a quarter past eight), Maxwell downed the last of his tea in one gulp and then deposited his empty cup in the dishwasher. Had he had any knowledge of how to operate the contraption, he would have put it to work, but alas, he was no better at housework than his nanny was.

He only hoped his butler wouldn't mind when he woke up.

Niles should have been up almost two hours ago, but since Miss Babcock's disappearance he'd decided to cut him some slack. He knew how to make a decent cup of tea for himself anyway.

Sighing, Maxwell pocketed a small apple, grabbed his car keys and then set out for the theatre. He knew better than to lose time scouting the empty pantry for some sort of pastry or baked goodie — Niles had not gone grocery shopping. Neither had he nor Fran. He'd been meaning to ask Niles to please write him a list of the things the house needed, so he could go and get them, but he always forgot to do so...

And the times he hadn't forgotten about it, his butler had looked so crestfallen and exhausted that he'd decided against asking him.

So, chores were sort of officially-slash-unofficially on hold in the mansion. Not that anybody particularly minded or cared - they all knew that there were more important things going on in everybody else's minds.

Mostly because it was going through their minds, too.

Its presence in his own mind made Maxwell's drive difficult, to say the least. It was hard not to look harder at the pedestrians, trying in vain to see if he could spot that familiar face in the crowd, going about her business like there was absolutely nothing wrong in the world.

At least then, he'd know that his friend was safe.

But of course, there also came the uneasy thoughts. The wondering if she'd been near there on the day she'd gone missing, or if he was occasionally glancing around from his driving, only to lock eyes with the person who had seen her last, for whatever sinister purpose.

On that day, it happened to be the latter that plagued him all the way to the theatre. The thoughts made him so uneasy, he was grateful to get out of the car and into the building.

At least work gave him something else to focus on.

The workers bustling around the place at least gave the sense that something was happening in the world, other than the one thing that seemed to have made it stand still.

Maxwell couldn't help his stomach feeling like it was turning over itself. He hated to do this to them, especially when they'd worked so hard on what they'd managed to achieve so far.

But he had no choice. It wouldn't be right to keep going. Even if nothing else, it felt like continuing would be a horrible insult to C.C..

She wouldn't have minded so much, having to tell everyone that work was ceasing for whatever reason. If anything, she'd be more likely to be more upset about the idea of work having to stop, rather than the impact it would have on everyone else...

But then again, he was on his own for the time being. The responsibility to ensure that everyone involved in the production was alright fell on him and him alone, and as thing currently were, the best was for the production to come to an early end. He couldn't face a box office flop (with all the financial trouble that entailed) on top of having a missing business partner and friend.

He simply couldn't stand the pressure to deliver when he knew he couldn't.

He'd apologise profusely to the cast and crew, and promise to pay them some sort of monetary compensation for the effort dispensed and all the trouble they'd gone through. Still, his decision to halt the production was final. He had more than enough money to never work another day in his life; cancelling one play (especially if the circumstances surrounding it were considered) would not represent a terribly hard blow to his prestige as a producer. Even if it did, he was a man who had his priorities straight – friends and family came before his business, no matter what.

He could only live in hope that his employees would understand…

By the time he arrived at the 49th Street Theatre most of the crew were already in, but unlike every other rehearsal there was an unsettling tension in the air. Almost everyone was silent, perhaps thinking about what everyone knew was coming, and the few who weren't, were huddled in small groups, whispering. Their faces only conveyed worry and unease at the atypical situation; the entire crew was unsettled by the recent developments, and since this was the first rehearsal since Miss Babcock had disappeared, nobody held out hope for Maxwell to be the bearer of good news.

Which would have given him some sort of relief if they'd told him so, if he was honest. Considering the fact that he had no good news to really give, and he was feeling the pressure of everything he was about to say.

He'd been trying to rehearse the best way to say it all in the car on the way over. He just hoped that it was the right way...

Seeing as he had nothing left to do but start, he cleared his throat to gather everybody's attention.

As the employees fell completely silent and came closer to hear him, he noted that he still had authority, but it was probably nothing like them listening to C.C., the minute she came through the door.

But she wasn't there. And he couldn't hesitate, so he had to begin.

"Thank you, everyone, for being here and agreeing to meet like this," he said. It seemed as good a place to start as any. "I know that this would usually be your rehearsal time, but...well, given the circumstances surrounding Miss Babcock's disappearance, I am afraid that I have to tell you that will no longer be necessary. I'm sorry, but I'm cancelling the production. You will all be compensated for your time, of course, but I can't go ahead with it in good faith..."

He suddenly found himself unable to look at them. It was like his heart, as heavy as it was, had dragged his gaze to the floor as well.

And that was where he finished, "Not when my friend is missing."

Missing, and probably being hurt by a selfish bastard as he spoke. He tried not to think much about what C.C. could be experiencing, because whenever he did so, his imagination would more often than not run wild and come up with the most terrible, nightmarish scenarios. If he dwelled too much on them, he could feel the world crumbling all around him, and he couldn't afford that. Not when he had a family to support and a strong front to present in front of the kids.

And, as it were, he also had to present a strong front in front of his employees.

"I would like to thank you all for all the effort you've done, and also for your understanding," he continued after clearing his throat and looking back up at his crew. "Please, do come by my home during at your earliest convenience and I shall give you your checks."

After noting that everyone appeared to be nodding and murmuring in quiet agreement (and feeling slightly relieved that no one was protesting), he then turned to leave. He was starting to feel like he wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, and it wasn't just to get home so he could wait for the cast and crew to come by, either.

But as he was nearing the exit, a voice yelled out to him, and made him stop.

He was afraid that someone had decided to protest after all, but as the familiar frame of one of the production assistants (...Thomas, was it? He thought it was Thomas) jogged over to him, he realised that the man didn't seem like he was ready to pick any sort of fight.

"I'm glad I caught you in time!" Thomas smiled slightly, reaching out and barely tapping the producer on the arm. "I just...well, I just wanted to thank you for everything, really. And if you need anything, I'm always here to help out."

He said it with such conviction, if Maxwell hadn't been looking him in the face, he might have considered genuinely thanking him and leaving it at that.

But it struck the producer as...odd. The look in the man's eyes wasn't right, and he found it strange that someone so low down the ranks in the crew would be so...eager and determined to help...

It was...unsettling. But there was nothing Maxwell could do, apart from nod, mutter some kind of thanks that he wasn't sure he meant, and leave without looking back.

Had he looked back, he would have caught Thomas wearing a small, unsettling, half-smile.

A smile that gave away that he knew a lot more than he let on.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 7**_

" _ **Recognition"**_

Niles was on edge.

He'd been on edge for weeks now, and the feeling seemed to be getting progressively worse with every day that went past without any advancement in Miss Babcock's case. Despite Lane's best effort, every lead ha turned into a dead end. She'd interviewed over two dozen people, and each and every one of them had been crossed out from the suspects list, much to Niles' and the entire Babcock family's chagrin.

But most of all, his own inability to pinpoint exactly who the facial composite reminded him of was what was bothering him the most.

He'd spent countless hours at the station, poring over photographs, files and criminal records, but all to no avail. He simply couldn't come up with the name or the identity of this person, and he was beginning to think that, perhaps, he didn't really know this person – that his own desperate desire to help had confused him into believing that the facial composite remembered him of someone.

That he was useless, when it came to helping in the investigation.

He had that last thought fairly often. But that really was his own desire to help - to be the one that did the Significant Thing; the thing that brought the whole horrible nightmare to an end. The thing that put a bastard of the highest degree behind bars, where he belonged...

The thing that saved Miss Babcock.

That was a laugh, he told himself bitterly. He wouldn't be the one who found anything as significant as a toenail clipping, let alone the one to save her.

The only thing he could do – as a stupid, pathetic butler – was what he was currently doing; making coffee for himself and Miss Babcock's parents. They were due to be on their way to the police station soon, but a pick-me-up was required if they were going to get through it.

He slammed the mugs down on the kitchen counter as he waited for the pot to heat up, and considered himself lucky that he didn't break them. It would've been just his luck if they had, but it was truly the last thing he needed.

Having to stop and clean it all up would only delay him. It would also remind him even more that he truly was nothing in the grand scheme of this investigation, and that anybody could do the only things he was able to help with.

Anybody could pour coffee, and wish they were the one who'd be the one to save the person they loved. Even if they knew that wasn't going to happen.

It hurt, every time his traitorous mind reminded him of that fact. But he had to go on existing anyway. He couldn't entirely shut down, no matter how much it all made him want to.

He poured the coffee and stirred in the milk and sugar, and tried to block out the thought that if he'd just let his body shut down in the hospital, then none of this would've happened. He would've saved everybody a lot of trouble, if he'd just gone when he was obviously supposed to...

But he shook his head to try and clear it, getting it back to the task at hand. He had to keep his mind on something else. Those other kinds of thoughts didn't help anybody, and would only drive him into a greater despair than he was already in.

And he was certain that he was already in Hell, so he wasn't sure he wanted to be wherever that kind of suffering would lead.

After having placed the three cups as well as a plate laden with pastries and various baked goodies on top of one of Mr Sheffield's best silver trays, Niles made his way back to the living room, where Stewart and B.B. Babcock waited. The older couple were sat on the sofa, flush against one another, and in complete silence. B.B. was leaning against her husband, who had an arm wrapped around her frail shoulders, and she'd hid her face in the crook of his neck.

The sight would have broken anyone's heart. But there was an added of guilt, when it came to Niles. It was his fault that their little girl was gone, and now it was up to him to ensure they were as comfortable as they could be considering the situation.

Since C.C.'s disappearance the couple had begun withering away – fear had infected their heart and souls, almost like a disease, and it was progressing rapidly. There was no respite, no peace – not even in dreams. Their minds could only think of their child, and what could be happening to her.

On particularly bad days, when it seemed that hope was gone for good, they were barraged by horrible, unwanted thoughts – thoughts of finding their dead child or never finding her at all. They couldn't lose heart, they knew that, but how were they supposed to hold out hope when they'd received nothing but bad news and most clues and suspects ended up at a dead end?

How were they supposed to go on, when their child was suffering?

If they were both honest (and dared to even think it to themselves), they sometimes weren't sure they could, for much longer. But they were determined to ignore those thoughts, for as long as it took to find out something else; to make a breakthrough, and get new information on what had happened to their daughter.

It was tiring, but it would be nothing, compared to what C.C. was going through.

Niles felt his stomach twist as he got near to them. He thought they somehow looked even more tired and ill than they had when he'd left them to go into the kitchen. He couldn't imagine what they were going through - he had no children, and he never would have any. Theirs was a pain unlike his own - no deeper or lesser, perhaps, but definitely not the same.

He had to make sure he wasn't frowning too deeply when he got to the coffee table, and he settled the tray down in front of the two weary, heartbroken parents.

"There," he said quietly, picking up one of the cups and intending to pass it over. "It should give a little bit of energy, but it's still hot, so be careful..."

"Thank you, Niles," said Stewart, doing the smiling for both himself and B.B. as he reached for his wife's cup and handed it to her before getting his own, "Can I bother you for some sugar?"

"I've already put some in, sir," replied the butler, "Two spoonfuls for yourself and three for Mrs Babcock, correct?"

Somehow, Stewart found it in him to give the butler a wider smile – since his child had disappeared, the man had done nothing but help them and the investigation. He wasn't sure Niles was aware of it, but he was making himself and his wife a world of good with his actions and constant worry. He was one of the few people who had shown true concern for their missing child, and the fact that he'd been the one who'd first noticed her absence had not gone unnoticed by Stewart.

He had his suspicions as to why he'd been the first to notice and also why C.C.'s disappearance had hit the butler with such tremendous force. But as it was (and given what was at stake, presently), he would not probe where he clearly wasn't wanted.

"Yeah, correct," he replied simply, "You have a good memory."

"It's in the job description, sir," joked the butler, trying to lighten the situation.

But before he could really see if it had its intended effect, the doorbell rang and his eyes automatically travelled in the direction of the hallway.

It must have been another member of the cast or crew, coming to collect their payment from Mr Sheffield. Most had already come, having wanted their money right away, but a few had obviously not been able to make it before. As such, they had the occasional straggler come along for what they were owed.

Excusing himself to the Babcocks (and receiving an understanding nod in reply), he went to go and answer it.

But when he opened it, he was struck like he'd never imagined he would be.

The man on the other side smiled at him pleasantly enough, and said something that the butler assumed must've been to do with why he was there, but Niles wasn't sure that he could hear any of it.

Not when the face he was looking at had also been shown to him on paper, drawn by a police sketch artist.

"I...I beg your pardon?" he had to ask, trying harder to concentrate that time.

The man's smile, now slightly unnerving, didn't even falter, "I said I'm Thomas Jones – I'm a production assistant, I'm here to see Mr Sheffield, about my payment..."

Of course he was. And that was it!

That was where he'd seen the man before! He worked at the theatre!

Not only that, but if Niles' memory didn't fail him, this man had been the infamous assistant that had incurred in Miss Babcock's wrath by inviting her out. The incident had happened almost two years back, and he doubted that Miss Babcock herself remembered it (and even if she did, it was unlikely that she would remember _who_ this man was), but he did.

Oh, he really did!

They'd been working on one of their most successful productions, a musical inspired on Lewis Carroll's " _Alice in Wonderland",_ and as usual Miss Babcock had worked long hours at the theatre to ensure the production was a box office hit. Niles remembered he'd been sent to pick her up at the theatre during a particularly nasty snowstorm. He'd groused and complained, claiming that, since she was the White Witch in person, she'd be safe out of harm's way. But Mr Sheffield had sent him on his way anyway, and as he'd walked into the theatre he'd witnessed Miss Babcock having a go at one of her assistants.

He'd later found out the man had had "the audacity" (to quote Miss Babcock verbatim) to ask her out for dinner. The only reason she hadn't fired him, she'd told Niles, was because the man was an outstandingly hard-working and efficient worker, and at the time it would have been detrimental to the production.

Nothing else had been said about the incident afterwards, but on the few occasions he'd had to go to the theatre, he'd picked up on the man's stubborn interest for the blonde producer. He'd wait on her hand and foot, longingly glance at her when she wasn't looking, and sometimes, when he really thought no one was looking, he'd shamefully ogle her.

Niles hadn't thought much of it – Thomas was a creep, that much was certain, but he'd never given the man a second thought. He'd seemed like a harmless slimeball, but now…

Now Niles wasn't so sure about that.

All of it added together created a sense of dread and hate, slipping through his organs like fiery snakes. They wrapped tighter around just about everywhere inside him, and held on fast to make sure he couldn't quite breathe.

And the end result of the feeling was that it left Niles unsure if he wanted to let the man into the Sheffields' home or not. Part of him wanted to turn the man away, even if just for the relief of being able to shut the door. Another, larger, part wanted to drag him inside and angrily demand to know where the missing producer was, or else...

But, he supposed that he had no real choice in what he could do. As much as he wanted to do both those aforementioned things (and many more that involved broken bones, if he had been the one to do it), he couldn't legally make Thomas leave without his money, and he had no proof that the man had actually done anything.

And proof was always better than just someone's word. Especially the word of a nobody, like him.

So, as wrong as it felt and as much as it burned inside, he nodded and stepped aside, gesturing.

"Of course. Come in; Mr Sheffield is in his office."

He let his eyes follow the man all the way as he did. Something deep in his instincts told him not to let this Thomas Jones out of his sight, and he wasn't going to let that something down by letting the man wander just wherever he wanted to go!

In hindsight, he also thought that he should've insisted on going the long way around the house, using the back corridor that lead past the kitchen to the solarium, to get to Mr Sheffield's office.

But he didn't. It was more direct to go through the living room, and Thomas had already been pointed that way.

Which also meant that he had been pointed in the direction of Stewart and B.B., who were talking quietly and infrequently between sips of coffee.

They noticed the new arrival near enough immediately, and suddenly he had their attention.

Just as they, apparently, had his.

"Uh...hello, there," this Thomas Jones said, giving a small wave to the people on the sofa. "I'm Thomas. I work with the theatre, but I've ...um, also been studying this case as it's been going along, so I already know that you are Mr and Mrs Babcock, C.C. Babcock's parents. I just have to say that I am so sorry to hear about everything that's happened..."

Niles felt both a chill running down his spine and an urge to vomit – his condolences were so… mawkish. So disgustingly insincere. It made him see red; it made him want to smash his head against the glass coffee table over and over again, until he either confessed where he was keeping Miss Babcock or until he stopped moving at all.

Perhaps both.

He had to repeatedly clench and unclench his fists to keep from snapping at the man (and by that he meant swinging a nice hook straight to his nose) as he got two muted "thank you's" from Mr and Mrs Babcock. He had to take deep, calming breaths not to drag the bastard outside while screaming at him if he had no shame.

No, he had to keep his emotions in check.

If this indeed was the man who had kidnapped Miss Babcock, he couldn't let him know he suspected him. He had to play it cool and wait until he was out of the room to make his move. He'd have to let Lane know, and she would surely be onto Thomas like a bird of prey. He had to tread with care – on false move and he could put Miss Babcock's life in jeopardy, and he'd done that enough as it was.

To his credit, Niles didn't look like he was in the least bit disturbed. He continued to go through the motions, refilling cups and serving pastries without so much as batting an eyelid. He even nodded curtly at Thomas as he finally went on his way to Maxwell's study.

But once he heard the study's door being opened and closed, Niles immediately dropped everything he was doing and flew to Mr and Mrs Babcock's side, making the older couple start.

"We have to go to the station!" Niles said in a hushed (albeit urgent) voice, "Immediately!"

Stewart blinked back up at him, very obviously not understanding why the butler wanted to leave so quickly, "What? Why, what's the problem?"

Niles looked agitatedly over his shoulder, in case Thomas had finished with Mr Sheffield and was coming back. But they were in luck – the producer had probably decided to go over and tick off the man's employment file. And, knowing how Maxwell was with paperwork compared to Miss Babcock, Niles thought that must have bought them some time.

He leaned in towards the Babcocks more, explaining as quickly as he could, "That's the man I saw in the police composite! I knew I recognised him, it must've been from around the theatre!"

Stewart's jaw dropped, and, after exchanging a panicked look with B.B. (who had sat up more, out of his hold, from the shock), he craned his neck to try and see into the office.

Not that he had any luck with that. The door was shut. So, he turned back to Niles, with a look like cold steel starting to flash in his eyes.

"Is there any proof that this guy might've done something?"

Niles shifted uncomfortably, but eventually managed to tell them both everything about the man asking Miss Babcock out, being soundly rejected, and his apparent obsession with her afterwards.

It was enough to convince B.B., whose hands flew to her mouth to stop her from crying out loud in anguish. That man, she and everybody else seemed to know, could very well have her baby locked up somewhere!

He had to be stopped – they had do as Niles said and call the police!

Not that calling anybody seemed to be on Stewart's radar. The information Niles had provided had been enough for him, too – but he felt an anger burning in his chest instead of sadness. Anger, for the fact that this creep had felt entitled to their daughter. Anger, that he was holding her against her will and probably hurting her, too. Anger, for the fact that he'd looked both him and B.B. in the face and lied about how sorry he was, while knowing damn well that he was the cause of their pain.

It was an anger that he felt could only be doused in one way.

He closed his fist as he stood up, "I'll kill him. I'll kill him with my own hands!"

"No, sir, you can't!" Niles pleaded with him, blocking Stewart's way before he attempted to charge into the study and pummel Thomas until he was a bleeding mess.

"The hell I can't!" barked Stewart, trying to push past Niles, "Get out of my way!"

"Sir, please!" Niles insisted, struggling to keep the enraged father in place, "Listen to me – we don't have evidence. If you go in there and beat that man up, you'll be charged with assault and he will be let go! And that could spell trouble for your daughter. We cannot let him know we suspect him or he could hurt her – get rid of her, even!"

Stewart only stopped and thought about it then. At first, he wanted to rage and yell about how they could stop the guy from hurting C.C. by actually killing him, but then he realised that if they did that, there would be no one left to tell them where she was...

She'd be stuck, with perhaps no way of finding her...

And as awful and begrudging as his mind and heart kept making it seem, from that image alone, he knew he had to stand down.

Until they knew more, anyway. The minute he found out for sure, it was over for that guy.

He huffed out a breath and stopped shoving against the butler. His fist unclenched and he let the images of breaking Thomas' legs file out of his current thoughts.

He had to. For what the consequences could mean for his daughter, he had to.

"Fine," he relented, hating himself for it, even if he knew it was the right thing to do just then. "Then let's get the police, right now."

Niles could only agree with that statement. They had to let Lane know, as soon as possible, that they'd made their own breakthrough in the case by finding the man in the composite.

He'd even reminded Niles of his name. Thomas Jones. Lane would definitely be able to take it from there!

So, leaving their cups and not really caring that most of it was going to grow cold, Stewart helped B.B. up from her seat and Niles indicated for them to lead the way out of the living area.

After a quick stop at the closet to get B.B.'s purse (where Niles had hung it, when they'd come in), they were out the door and heading for the police station. Maxwell knew where they were going, so he didn't need to be informed.

And the less Thomas knew about it all for now, the better. He'd find out, soon enough.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: TRIGGER WARNING**

 **This chapter will include (but not describe) a situation of non-con sex. We promise you it will get better though!**

 **Thanks for reading and we'd love your reviews.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 8**_

" _ **Atrocitas"**_

Hunger was something that, up until very recently, had been foreign to C.C. Babcock. Having been born into one of the wealthiest families in America, C.C. had never worried herself about when (and if) she'd get the next meal. It had once been unthought that she'd ever go without, not to mention that the only type of hunger she'd experienced (if it could be called that way), was diet-related hunger.

Having a svelte figure had been a worry of hers since High-school, and she'd striven to stay in shape by way of strict diets, constant exercising and meal replacement (and by that she meant replacing lunch or dinner with a few cigarettes and a glass of her best Scotch). She remember gloating over her killer figure at the many High-school reunions over the years – she'd consoled herself that, while her classmates' bodies had all been ruined by childbirth, hers was a curvaceous beauty, and she'd made it her mission to wear form-fitting dresses whenever she'd had to attend to one of these annoying functions.

Now, she couldn't regret it more.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty they say, but had C.C. allowed herself to pile on a few more pounds, she wouldn't find herself in her current situation.

She had no idea how long it had been since Thomas had taken her (for all she knew it might as well have been a lifetime), but since her abduction, she'd lost almost twenty pounds. Thomas, the sick bastard, had gotten her a scale, and weighed her every night. He'd always smile in delight when the scale showed lower numbers, and C.C. would silently despair.

Currently, she weighed 110 pounds, and if things didn't change soon, she'd keep losing.

She, a 5' 9" woman, weighed only 110 pounds.

She could feel her ribs with her fingers – count them, even. Her collarbones and hipbones jutted out, and her once gorgeous legs had been reduced to half their size. Not that size had been the only thing that had been reduced by way of starvation; she lacked strength. And given her situation, that was more than worrying.

Before being abducted, C.C. had been confident in her ability to fight off an attacker should she need to, but as it were she could barely stand without having to lean against a wall. Her body was feeble, weak, frail…

It stood no chance against an attacker.

It was powerless.

 _She_ was powerless.

And she didn't know what to do about it.

What could she do about it? Nothing, really – not when she wasn't been fed regularly, or sleeping well, or being allowed daylight or the chance for exercise...

 _Allowed_. Once, someone using that word to mean giving her permission (instead of, say, a subordinate) would've been laughable. No one had ever given her permission to do anything – she'd done it herself, each time!

She'd been strong and independent. The very model of the modern woman, just doing her best to have it all.

Now, she'd give anything just for some of what she'd had.

Occasionally, her mind raced from the fear and the tiredness and the hunger. It was doing it right then, as she thought about what her life used to be like.

She closed her eyes, and rested her head back against the wall to try and ease the feeling. She still couldn't fully believe that it had ever come to this – being forced into a dark cell at the bottom of some psycho's house, being beaten, starved, made weak...

It made part of her wonder what could possibly happen next, but the thought didn't stay very long. She had a small dizzy spell, and had to open her eyes again to try and clear it.

Every moment she was awake was a fight to stay alert, and right then was no exception.

She might have lacked physical strength, but she'd be damned if she allowed herself to drift into unconsciousness. She had to fight the need to sleep or lie down — she had to keep herself occupied.

Throughout her captivity (and much to her surprise) Thomas had given her plenty of new trinkets to entertain herself with. He'd usually bring them after particularly bad beatings in order to somehow "make-up" for his bad temper, which only reminded C.C. of the way abusive men would try to "make up" for their behaviour by showering their victim with gifts and attention in cases of domestic violence. She didn't want his attention but, given that she had nothing to do down there, she did want his gifts.

C.C. was painfully aware that the dynamic between them resembled that of abusive relationships (save for the fact they _weren't_ in a relationship, no matter what his twisted mind thought), but she had to make the best of a bad situation. That's how she'd gotten a Walkman, a number of new books and CD's, a colouring book with a set of 50 Caran d' Ache pencils no less, a deck of cards, a number of notebooks, an assortment of crossword puzzles compendiums, two jigsaw puzzles, and a few Lego sets for her to build. She'd even learnt how to embroider after receiving an embroidery kit and a book on how to embroider!

Overall, she'd kept herself occupied.

Nevertheless, there was so much she could do before boredom found her again, and weak as she was, it was easy to give in to the lure of inactivity. Doing nothing was detrimental to her sanity, but as it was, her lack of physical health was preventing her from doing much apart from lying on her mattress.

How long had it been since she'd last eaten? Hours? Days?

It was hard to tell.

The one thing Thomas had refused to provide her with, was a clock.

He obviously wanted her to be completely taken out of time. Probably to disorientate her, and make her wonder what everything was like outside...

She wasn't going to let him know that he'd succeeded, in that regard. Often, when her thoughts weren't racing from any of the categories of her neglect, she thought about what the world outside could look like, and if it was it spring still, or if she'd been down there so long, that had changed as well. She wondered about what people could be doing – both the ones she knew and the ones she didn't; the lives they were living, the work they were going to, and the...the families they went home to at the end of the day...

She tried to imagine what could be happening in the news, too, but that was harder than the other two.

The world changed too quickly these days, and everything was too unpredictable to make a guess at what could happen next.

And she had to stop wondering right then and focus, as she heard the now-awfully-familiar sound of Thomas' footsteps, and him unlocking the trapdoor to come down...

Soon, she heard the latch being lifted; the heavy metal door swung on its hinges making a loud, creaking sound as it opened. As usual, Thomas had to lower the small ladder into the cellar before carefully climbing down into her personal Hell. She couldn't help but feel somewhat happy (if such thing was possible in this context) when she noticed he was carrying a small basket filled with a number of food items as well as a number of new CD's for her to listen.

Despite her suspicions of this being one of the different levels described in Dante's inferno, she still had it in her to appreciate the occasional positive occurrences. And food and entertainment easily fell on that category.

"You look unwell today," commented the bastard airily, almost as if he were unaware of where they were and who was to blame for her current deteriorated state. Not that that was the case, really — he knew perfectly well why she was unwell, and he was relishing in it. He was savouring every miserable second of him being in control.

Bastard.

Utter, fucking bastard...

She didn't answer to his observation, preferring instead to save her strength and use it crawl over to the table, where he'd already lowered the basket and was retrieving items from it.

She'd noticed he always followed an almost obsessive pattern when it came to setting her meal on the table — first, he'd remove her drink, which he'd promptly settle on the far left corner of her little table. Then, said drink was joined by a disposable set of plastic cutlery and a small Styrofoam cup. Next, he'd get the sweet items out of the basket and stack them in a neat pile opposite to her drink. Usually (and today was no exception), he'd bring her a small bar of chocolate and a banana, but when he was not being a cunt, he sometimes added cookies or other pastries. Lastly, he'd place the main course in the middle of the table. He never cooked it himself, so it wasn't uncommon for him to serve it to her in one of those Styrofoam take-out containers.

This time, C.C. realised, he'd brought her Chinese food.

She could smell it, even before she saw it. Her stomach growled in response to the tantalising aroma, low and fairly loud. She clutched at it, not wanting him to hear just how badly she wanted – needed – that food.

She didn't want him to think that she needed him in any way. She knew that she didn't. But he would obviously try to put a spin on it, to make it sound like he was the be-all and end-all of her existence. That nothing would ever be better for her, and that no one would ever treat her as well as he did.

Never mind the fact that as she approached, he began speaking to her like she was a dog.

"That's right – come and get it..."

The words and the tone both made her skin crawl. But if she was going to live, she needed this next meal. The frequency with which her head started to spin when she tried to get up these days told her that.

She made her way over to the table, and it was hard not to simply jump on the food that he had spread out there. But she knew she'd get a beating if she did, for not waiting for his permission to start, so she sat down heavily in the seat without touching any of it.

After a short pause, she finally asked what she needed to, more than anything else.

"May I start eating, please?"

Thomas' answer was minutely gesturing at the food, almost as if saying _voilà_. Still, C.C. knew better than to make a move without his express command — he'd tricked her before, and she didn't fancy having her meal taken away for "disrespecting" him. She'd developed the habit of hiding some of the food he gave her and storing it for later; emergency supplies for when need arose. But as it was, she'd run out of them, so she truly needed to eat.

As silent seconds ticked past, C.C. remained absolutely still, eyes cast to her lap and hands neatly folded behind her back. She knew she needed to be subservient, that's what made him tick, and keeping the monster happy was the best course of action if she wanted to eat. It was survival, plain and simple, and as Niles' voice insisted on saying, she had to do what it took to survive, no matter how painful or humiliating.

" _That's the Babcock I know!"_ whispered Niles' voice — she could almost see the pride on his face... " _Remember, you are doing this to survive."_

 _I know_ she thought back, having to blink back tears, _I am doing what it takes..._

It was humiliating. It was painful. It went against everything she had believed about herself and it was more wrong than words could say.

But that was what it took, to keep herself alive. And that was all that mattered at this point.

She didn't have to like or respect Thomas, which was lucky because she _really_ didn't do either. But she had to play the part, keep herself meek and non-volatile. It was the only chance she had.

Just like keeping still, and waiting for him to say something was the best way of making sure that she was going to get her food.

After what was probably only a few minutes but seemed like an agonising age, Thomas finally deigned to speak.

"Alright. You may begin."

C.C. was about to lift her hand to pick up the cutlery, when Thomas' hand slammed down on the table, catching her attention by making her jump.

"But," he continued, looking at her without blinking. "Not before you say it."

C.C. swallowed, knowing what he was after but not wanting to give him the satisfaction of the words. It killed her a little bit inside, every time she had to do it.

But the food was right there, and she needed it badly today...

So, she swallowed her pride once more. She always did, when this moment came around.

"Thank you, sir..."

Smugly triumphant, Thomas nodded and backed away from the table.

"Good. You should be grateful. Now, you may begin."

" _Well done,"_ said the voice in her head as she began her meal by pouring herself a nice glass of orange juice, _"You don't owe him anything — you are strong and doing what it takes. Keep going."_

C.C. would have liked to nod, but knowing Thomas always kept a close eye on her as she ate (and by that she meant that he simply wouldn't take his eyes off her), she decided against it. She was thankful for the little voice in her head, it helped keep her somewhat sane during her long confinement, and when she was around the creep it was a wonderful support.

Still, she tried not to think too much about the real Niles. Or the real world for that matter...

It was too painful.

She wasn't strong enough to face the obvious fact that there were no guarantees that she'd ever see any of her friends and family again. She couldn't yet accept that this torture could stretch out for years on end. Currently there wasn't any hope in sight — she had no chance to escape, nor did it appear as if someone was looking for her. If she really thought about it, it made her want to let go, and finally put an end to the pain...

C.C. closed her eyes for a moment, almost as if trying to erase those thoughts from her troubled and overworked mind — she had to take it a day at a time. One day at a time...

That was her only option.

"I saw our boss today," Thomas said, starting C.C. and making her open her eyes; it was unusual for him to engage in conversation with her. Especially during mealtimes. "You know, he's cancelled the play."

What?!

Maxwell had shut down the production?!

She couldn't help what happened after that thought. She looked right at him, eyes as questioning and panicked as they could be when they were also so very worn and tired.

"Oh, yeah," Thomas continued on, almost as though they were two people just having a normal chat at a coffee shop. "Said that he couldn't continue in good faith when his "friend was still missing"!"

C.C. felt her heart sink, listening to Thomas' mocking tone. He really didn't care about other people at all; he...found Maxwell's worrying to be _funny_...

She didn't find it funny. She found it incredibly touching that her business associate was so distraught, and that he'd put her above the production.

Even if the businesswoman in her was screaming in despair at all the time, money and work that they'd put into the thing in the first place. Not that any of that mattered where she was.

Thomas then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, pocketbook-sized rectangle of paper.

"He gave us our final paycheques, too. If you're good and lucky, I might get you something _nice_ with some of it..."

C.C. usually took what she could get when it came to the things he provided for her entertainment, but this time, there was something far more...sinister...about the way he said it.

Like whatever the "nice" thing was, it was going to be nicer for him than it was for her.

Either that, or he was pleased with himself and expected her to be grateful simply for the possibility of him buying her something.

C.C. wasn't grateful for any of it, but to placate him and to keep herself out of trouble, she gave him what he wanted anyway.

"Thank you, sir. That...would be nice."

It really wouldn't be, but she had to make it sound like she was agreeing, if she expected him to remain in a good (or at least calm) mood.

"Yes, it would be. And as long as you do everything I say, you'll get it," he said.

That was when he apparently noticed that she'd stopped trying to eat, in order to talk to him.

The smile slowly slipped from his face, "Aren't you going to eat, like I told you? I have given you my express permission, after all..."

Hearing a concealed threat in his words that might be followed by him taking the food away from her for "not liking it and being ungrateful", she nodded quickly and returned to the meal.

She'd been a fool to think he had any interest in actually _talking_ to her. He was only telling her these things to get a reaction out of her – to enjoy from the pain it caused her. A clear power dynamic had been established the moment he'd first locked her in the cellar, and this was yet another proof that he was the one in charge. It was a way to remind her that he could (and would) take everything from her if he so chose. Not only that, but he'd also make sure to rub as much salt in the proverbial wound as he possibly could.

He'd taken her freedom, her clothes, her food, her job… what else was there for him to take?

A dark part of her mind reminded her he could very easily decide to take her life. The ultimate loss, as it were. But, she'd learnt a thing or two about Thomas (an inevitable result of being confined in his prison and him being the only human being with whom she had any kind of contact or interaction), and he enjoyed lording over her too much to put an end to it.

As horrible as it sounded, she was still his plaything, and he was not ready to dispose of her (yet).

How long would it take for him to get bored of her, C.C. didn't know. She could only hope that she'd be able to escape long before that happened.

As Thomas droned on about his day, C.C. slowly but tirelessly ate her meal. She managed to eat all the rice, most of her sweet and sour chicken and all but one sprig roll. She felt heavy and more than a little sleepy by the time she was done with the main course, but if she didn't attempt to eat her dessert her captor would get mad at her, and that would only mean another, harsher, beating. Besides, her survivor brain was urging her to stuff herself with as much food as possible, all in preparation for the next period of starvation.

After having settled her empty plate and cutlery back into the basket, she reached for the banana, gently pinched its top, and pulled back some of the peel. She did so slowly, wanting to enjoy from actually having food in her hands, and also biding herself some time to get her meal down so she wouldn't feel as though her stomach would burst once she'd eaten her dessert. That, apparently, was yet another downside to starvation – she desperately needed food, but her stomach couldn't take large quantities of it without her being sick.

She could already sniff the pleasantly sweet scent of the banana – it was making her dizzy, almost as if it were a nice glass of fine Bordeaux rather than a fruit that she was holding in her hand. She'd found that, nowadays, her sense of smell was enhanced, making every meal an almost intoxicating onslaught on her attuned senses. She supposed that, when your every daydream revolves around food, these things were inevitable.

Once it was open far enough, she broke off the top, and put it in her mouth. If she ate it in small enough pieces, it wouldn't be so bad on her already-satisfied stomach, and she might be able to get through it all...

Thomas still hadn't finished talking at this point. Luckily, whenever he got like this, he'd get so caught up in whatever he had to say about himself that he wouldn't beat her for eating too quickly or slowly, or any other insane reason to hurt her that his mind could come up with.

She managed – barely – to finish the banana. It hurt to have eaten so much, but it was better than him deciding she "obviously hadn't been hungry enough" and then leaving her without any meals for longer the next time.

She wasn't sure if she could stand that. It had already been bad enough, before.

" _Luckily, it won't come to that,"_ the voice in her head reminded her with a kind of sensible straightforwardness. _"You're eating all that you can. Surviving however you can."_

C.C. replied in her head that she knew that. But she also knew that even that might not be enough.

With Thomas in charge, he could move the line she had to cross at any time. And that could easily spell trouble, if something she did one day was fine, but the next it became a problem...

It made her wonder what the final straw would have to be.

She could only hope she'd never have to find out.

Once she was done with her banana, C.C. carefully disposed of the peel in the little wastebasket she kept by her table. Thomas was assiduous in ensuring she kept her small cellar clean, and he'd made it clear that, should she ever fail to satisfy his high standards of cleanliness, she'd get beaten up.

C.C. knew better than to step so much as a toe over the line where Thomas and his multiple displays of OCD were concerned, and so far she'd incurred his wrath only once, when she'd accidentally dropped her cup of juice. Her hands had shaken too much and had been too weak to hold the small cup for long, but Thomas had made her pay dearly for that... _misdemeanour_ … anyway.

Lastly, she moved onto the final bit of her meal — a small bar of dark chocolate Thomas insisted that she had. Before her captivity she hadn't been a fan of dark chocolate, preferring sweeter types, but here she didn't get to choose.

Here, she had to obey.

"Did you like the food?" asked her captor in an unusual (and, quite frankly, worrying) display of interest about her culinary preferences. He never left anything to chance, not even the tiniest detail, so there had to be an ulterior motive behind his asking.

"Yes, sir, I did," she replied with caution.

"Good! Now, I am pleased to tell you, I have deemed you worthy of going upstairs. You'll get that shower you've been asking for," replied Thomas, giving her an unsettlingly bright smile _— a crocodile's smile..._

She didn't like the sound of being "deemed worthy" of anything in his mind. But the word "shower" caught her attention full-force.

At one point, the idea of getting a shower would've relieved her. She might have even openly been happy about it. But as things currently were, the look on his face put her too much on edge for that.

Not that she was going to turn it down. She felt disgusting from the grease and sweat that clung to her body and hair, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to live with the filth for much longer before it became unbearable.

She _had_ to take it. It might make her feel a little more able to do things, if she did.

" _That's it, Babcock. Do what you have to, nothing more."_

The voice sounded...warily encouraging. Even he knew she had to be careful then, while she did this.

So, she took in a breath that she made as quiet as possible before she answered Thomas.

"Thank you, sir. I do need to take a shower..."

"That you do," Thomas agreed. "I don't let filthy animals wander around upstairs, so you'd better make it a real good, deep clean."

C.C. felt her stomach turn over a little as he said that. The emphasis didn't sit right with her at all. But she couldn't throw up - the consequences of showing her repulsion would be worse than just emptying the contents of her stomach onto the floor.

They'd be worse than being made to clean it all up, too. And she doubted that she'd be allowed to eat again for a long time if he felt that she was being ungrateful by "rejecting" the food, even without meaning to.

And then there would be whatever happened because she'd "disrespected" him...

No. She had to keep it down. If she expected to get any better at all, she had to eat and keep clean.

She might even have a better night's sleep, if she managed both of those.

So, she nodded, "Yes sir. I'll clean thoroughly..."

"Good," Thomas stood up straight. "Get up. We're going up right now."

Again, once she would've been eager to get up there to go for a shower. Her body would've been screaming that any chance for a little bit of relief from the grime was better than nothing, and that she should jump at it while it was being offered.

Well, not offered. _Granted_. Thomas would remind her of that, with his words and maybe with his fists, if he felt like it.

But now he wasn't. She was going (right now, even though something about that sounded threateningly abrupt) because she needed it, more than anything. She knew it would help her, but that was it.

Still, she didn't like the sound of the way he was ordering her up, even as she slowly rose to her feet...

"Get over to the trapdoor," Thomas ordered. "Stay in my sight at all times, and when we are upstairs, don't even think about running. I have a gun in my pocket, and I'll use it if you make me angry..."

With a nod an a soft "yes, sir", C.C. quickly moved towards the old, aluminium ladder, not wanting to keep her captor waiting – nothing good ever came of Thomas' patience running out. She couldn't help but feel a ting of apprehension as her hands closed around the side rails and her left foot landed on the first step. The structure didn't look (or feel) entirely secure; it creaked the moment her full weight was on it, almost as if it were complaining about having her on top. It made C.C. fear it would cave beneath her, and she'd come crashing down to the floor. Thomas would probably find a way to blame it on her, too.

But, surprisingly enough, it held strong. Carefully, she climbed up, always making sure to hold onto the ladder's side, and she eventually emerged into a small, dimly-lit chamber, the only source of light being a lone 50-watt lightbulb, which was hanging precariously from its socket. There seemed to be no way in or out of the room – almost as if she were inside a small war bunker. Everything around was made of concrete, save for the six wooden support beams and the square-shaped iron slab fixed to the wall opposite to her.

It left C.C. with the unsettling feeling that she was locked inside a tomb…

But she didn't have much time to look around – Thomas had soon joined her, and he pushed past her, forcing her to press herself against one of the walls so he had room to kneel in front of the iron slab.

Much to C.C.'s surprise, Thomas pulled at the slab with a grunt and wrenched it open. It was a concealed door!

He let it slowly swing out, revealing a floor on the other side but very little else, from the angle she was seeing.

The door had to have been extremely low in the wall...was it so he could hide the entrance behind something...?

She didn't have long to wonder about it. Thomas was soon shoving at her again, obviously tired of her just being stood there and staring without moving.

"Kneel down and crawl," he near-snarled. "And don't get up until I say so, on the other side!"

That got her moving again, faster than before. She might have felt slowed down by the large meal before, but when a threat was presented, it was surprising how quickly that food could be burned off into energy.

So, C.C. crawled. She crawled until she could see the new flooring only by the better lighting, knowing that that meant she'd reached her destination.

It was hard not to move fast, especially knowing that he had a gun somewhere on his person. But any sudden moves could've been all the excuse he needed to pull the trigger...

So, she waited on her hands and knees until he had made it through the door and into the room. He also got himself to his feet first, dusting off his jacket.

"Get up, or I'll drag you."

C.C. immediately did as she was told, and when she turned to look at him, she couldn't help but see the...door...they'd just come through...

The door was hidden within an old-fashioned fireplace. Quite literally, the back of the firebox _was the concealed door_. No one would ever think to look there, because all they'd be seeing, was the empty firebox of an old, defunct chimney!

And it wasn't like the fireplace appeared out of place where it was, either. They'd arrived in a stylish-looking den or living area, which appeared to be set up with a large television for comfortable home entertainment. A fireplace just added an atmospheric charm to the place!

He'd set it all up just perfectly, to work out in his favour...

Again, she didn't have long to stand around, admiring the place. Thomas was getting fed up of apparently having to wait for her again, and he was deliberate in showing her how he put his hand into his jacket pocket, pressing something hard against the edge of the fabric.

If he did really have a gun (and she didn't entirely expect him to be lying and just bluffing with something gun-shaped), then she had to tread even more carefully than before...

"Start walking in the direction that I say," he told her. No ifs or buts, just an order that he expected her to follow. "Go. Move towards that door, on the other side of the room."

He gestured with the pocket containing the gun.

C.C. nodded, not feeling brave enough to even attempt to speak, now that she was out of her prison. Here, out of the cellar, she was in more danger — animals, when they feel cornered, become more aggressive, and here in the open, where someone could perhaps see her, Thomas was just like a rabid predator, willing to go to the very end to protect himself.

She didn't dwell on the joy of actually having more space to move in, nor did she relish in the sunlight filtering through the half-open living room blinds — she kept moving, taking care not to make a false move that would warrant being shot.

This was survival, and she had to pull through.

They only stopped once they'd reached the master bedroom, and Thomas lost no time before locking the door behind him and pocketing the key. The room was, unsurprisingly, pristine — unnaturally organised, almost.

It all made C.C. feel extremely uncomfortable. It was almost as if no one was really living there...

She was certainly just existing there...

Thomas then ordered her again, pointing the gun in the direction of another door in a corner of the room, "Get into the bathroom."

She did as she was told, not even stopping to relish the feeling of a soft carpet beneath her feet instead of a hard floor.

The bathroom was just like Thomas' bedroom, really - clean and organised to the point of obsession, every surface gleaming and the sense about it that nobody ever used it.

She also got the feeling that if she touched anything for too long or in the wrong way and stained it, then she'd never be allowed to use it again.

Thomas turned partially away from her then, to lift a couple of towels down off a high shelf next to the sink. He dumped them on the counter, right by her.

"You'll use these to dry yourself off. You won't need any more than that."

The way he said that made it sound like he'd practically measured her up for these towels, which only added to C.C.'s sense of feeling sick.

But she had no choice, other than to nod and thank him.

"Fifteen minutes," he warned, as he moved to the door — was he actually going to let her bathe by herself?! — "Put your clothes inside the hamper once you are done. You'll find your new clothes inside the vanity's far left drawer."

"Yes, sir," C.C. said almost automatically, itching to rush into the shower, "Thank you—"

"I won't care if you aren't done in fifteen minutes," he interrupted her, "Once the time is up, I'll come get you. Clear?"

C.C. nodded.

Seemingly satisfied with her answer, Thomas slammed the door shut and, judging by the faint clicking sound that followed, he locked it, too. He wasn't taking any risks, clearly.

Not that he should have worried — she knew better than to try to fight him, given her weakened state.

Besides, she was craving a warm shower — a relaxing bath after weeks' worth of grime and filth. She'd missed the heavenly relief of warm water licking at her skin, running down her long body and soothing her aching muscles. She'd missed the peace it gave her.

She'd missed feeling... clean.

But she couldn't stand there all day long, wasting her precious (if limited) bath-time. She knew he'd meant it when he'd said he'd drag her out the moment her fifteen minutes were up, and she didn't fancy incurring his wrath nor being dragged back into her cellar without having completed her bath.

She stripped of her dirty clothes, tossed them in the hamper and, without caring to look at herself in the mirror (not that she would have liked the reflection upon it anyway), she jumped into the shower-box and turned on the water.

The warm water was the most welcome sensation she'd had in...well, longer than she could remember. She nearly always overstuffed herself with food and ended up in pain because of it, but the water wasn't bringing her any pain.

No. It was bringing her the sweet relief that she hoped it would. The relief of feeling clean, after too many weeks of being trapped in a layer of filth she'd had no choice but to keep.

The built-up sweat and grime washed away with a little bit of effort, and she used some of the soap and shampoo to wash her body and her hair, remembering what Thomas said about making it all thorough.

She didn't want an inspection, but if doing as he said and making sure she remained clean got her a shower more often, then she would do it.

She was quick about rinsing off, not wanting to find out that she'd run out of time and he was about to burst in and fetch her out.

Stepping out felt like another torture all of its own, but if she was in plenty of time, then she knew he couldn't fault her for it.

The towels he'd left out for her were the softest, fluffiest things she'd felt in far too long, and they helped to dry her off fairly quickly. She even stayed wrapped in the larger one for a few minutes, before finally deciding that she had to take the next step and get the fresh clothes that Thomas had talked about.

They were just, were he'd said, stuffed in a little box inside one of the vanity's drawers. She was surprised to see they were new — he'd bought her clothes? Why...?

" _I wouldn't care too much if I were you"_ said Niles' voice, " _Just put them on and be ready. We don't want him getting mad, do we?"_

No, no they didn't.

Especially when he had a gun in his pocket and was clearly ready to use it.

Gently, she pulled out an admittedly gorgeous soft-pink nightgown. It felt soft and delicate underneath her fingertips, and she rather liked the trapeze silhouette and straps accented with lace applique. They give a retro feel of vintage sleepwear. She was also glad for its loose, billowy fit (although these days most garments were loose on her).

It was definitely something comfortable to sleep in.

The second item was a matching cashmere robe with a scalloped lace trim.

She couldn't help but smile a little at that. It was, as of that moment, the warmest thing she had to wear.

It would be perfect for when the cold in the cellar got unbearable...

She slipped it on over the top of her gown, stopping to look down at herself in them both. She might not want to look in the mirror, but she could see how both items looked together.

Both were just right, of course, but she stopped herself from thinking about how she could have almost bought them herself, to wear around the penthouse. That would be asking for trouble, considering she thought she might burst into tears if she thought too deeply or too much about a place she might never see again.

There were a lot of places she thought she'd never see again...

But, she couldn't stand around any longer. Thomas was probably running out of patience, and even if he wasn't, there was always the chance that he might burst in because he felt like it.

So, she quickly combed her hair through with a comb that she found placed next to the sink (she put it back exactly where she found it), pulled the robe tight and tied it at the waist, before turning to try and turn the doorknob. She was surprised to find it actually gave and the door opened – her captor must have unlocked it while she was washing…

She couldn't help but wonder why.

Thomas, she soon found out the moment she walked out of the bathroom, was lying on his bed, a book in hand and reading glasses on. If she didn't know who he was and what he'd done, she'd have said he looked just like any normal, middle-aged man. Not that she knew his age, but he looked like he was pushing fifty, and she could see a number of grey streaks in his hair.

It was a... _conflicting_ picture, in a way. She was so used to seeing him impeccably dressed and he was always so tense and on edge, that seeing him sprawled on his bed, relaxed, without his tie or shoes on and with a few buttons on his shirt undone, was... _odd_.

Unsettlingly odd.

He didn't look up from his book when she first walked out of the bathroom; he kept on reading, almost as if she weren't there. What should she do now? Call for his attention? He had to take her back to her cellar, didn't he?

" _Stay quiet,"_ the voice suggested in what resembled an imaginary whisper, _"Don't call for him."_

C.C. nodded to herself — the voice was right. She didn't want his attention on her. So she resolved to stand there, eyes cast to the floor and hands folded behind her back. Had the door to the room been open, she'd have tried to make a run for it, but as it was she was trapped. Not even the enormous window opposite to Thomas' bed was open — the blinds were shut, obviously to avoid any unwanted onlookers.

Eventually, after a few silent minutes (than to C.C. fell like hours), Thomas looked up from his book. He placed a small metallic bookmark between the two pages and, heaving a sigh, he slammed it shut and placed it on his night-table. He didn't comment on her new clothes nor did he ask if she liked them (thus going back to normality, C.C. thought).

He simply stood up, and addressed her as he pointed at the bed, "Lie down. I have decided that I'll have you tonight. No ifs or buts."

...What?

C.C. could've sworn that he said he'd...that he was going to...

As her heart began to pound with fear and her breathing began to speed up, her thoughts began to race. And between the blind panic of immediately wanting to get out of there and to stand her ground and scream "no", she thought about everything that had happened that day that had led up to that moment.

The nice meal. The shower. The...the _lingerie_ that now made her feel sick to have even agreed to wear!

How could she have been so blind? So stupid?! Of course this was what he'd been planning all along!

No. She wasn't going to let this happen – she was going to run, and she didn't care how many locked doors she had to try and get through, or how many guns he had on him!

Being dead in a ditch was better than giving herself up to him.

So, seeing as the words had currently failed her in her attempts to scream and shout and verbally protest, she simply made a bolt for the door. She pulled at the knob, desperately trying to get it to give, but to no use. It was locked, and it wouldn't budge.

But she wasn't going to give up. Not even with Thomas charging at her, having realised that she wasn't going to go down quietly.

She was going to fight.

It was during this moments of panic and overwhelming fear that C.C. felt a little bit like her old self. She'd become subservient for far too long, and she was not planning on letting this bastard force her to do anything that she didn't want!

"Don't you dare!" roared the kidnapper, trying to grab at his prey, but finding she was more elusive than he'd thought she'd be by this stage. He'd tried his hardest to weaken her, to make her more vulnerable, but she had fight left in her.

Gross mistake.

With a kick aimed at his shin (and which impacted perfectly on point), C.C. bought herself a few seconds to try and run for the window. She'd jump from it if she needed to; she'd flung herself to the unknown, regardless of whether she lived or not.

But, sadly, she never made it.

He was faster than her, and he managed to reach out and yank at her hair. That was enough to make her to collapse to the floor, and the bastard had soon grabbed at her arms and was carrying her to bed. She kicked, screamed, even tried to punch him a few times...

But again, it was useless.

He roughly threw her on the bed face first, and he then climbed on top of her back, hiking up her nightgown as he went. The fight was over.

She tried to delay the inevitable by trying to press her legs together, but he was stronger. He was healthier. He was bigger.

And he subdued her.

At some point, she eventually realised while the vile sound of his zipper being pulled down and pants being removed reached her ears, she'd begun crying.

It only worsened when she felt him positioning himself...

" _Babs, let's go_."

Huh...?

The voice...what was it doing there, right then? And why did it sound like it was coming from somewhere else...?

Angling her face up as best she could, she nearly let her jaw drop as she saw the one man whose face she'd once thought she never wanted to see again.

Niles. And he was reaching out to her...

" _Come on,"_ he said again. _"Let's go."_

Confused, but knowing it was far better than staying where she was, with what was about to be done and the man who was doing it, she felt the inner parts of her – her mind, her heart, and her very soul – reach out a hand towards his own.

His hand felt pleasantly warm as she took it, and she was gone from her body just as Thomas invaded it.

" _Don't look back,"_ Niles said, pulling her towards him. "Just keep your eyes on me..."

She wasn't even dreaming of looking back. Not when it would only cause her more pain. And especially not in front of the one voice of reason and comfort she'd had for so long...

She shook her head.

" _I won't,"_ she replied, wishing she could cry again but unable to. _"Just...keep talking to me..."_

" _I will…"_ he promised, smiling sadly at her and coming to wrap an arm around her, _"I promise I will…"_

She nestled into his embrace, trying to ignore the cries coming from her own body as a sick bastard broke her over and over again. She knew that this – being in an imaginary embrace with what could only be the imaginary manifestation of Niles – was her mind's way to shield her from what was being done to her. She was blocking out the trauma.

Even if, deep within, she could feel everything that was being done to her.

She'd never had out-of-body experiences before, but she was thankful that this one had happened when it did.

She remained in Niles' embrace for what felt like an eternity. She listened to his soothing words – she listened to him saying over and over again that she'd be okay. That this would be over soon. That he'd keep her safe…

But eventually she felt a tug at her spirit – her body was calling. She had to go back.

She pulled away from Niles, aware that as she did so Thomas culminated his vile act within her (thank God she had an IUD), and the two shared one last heartfelt hug.

" _I won't be gone for long,"_ he promised, _"Be strong, Babs."_

She nodded, unable to say anything. She didn't want to go back, but she had to. She couldn't stay in this limbo – she had to go back to Hell, where her body needed her to be. So, letting go of Niles at long last, she turned to her body, now pressed between the bed and a panting bastard, and with a sigh, she walked back to it and touched her own fingertips.

She was back then. And she'd made it just as the intruder pulled away from her.

And the pain was back, too. Everything that had happened when the parts he'd never touch were gone, was now back, full-force and making her want to collapse in agony.

Agony of the abuse. Agony of the heartbreak...

Agony that she hadn't been strong enough, and now she was broken.

Broken, and filthy all over again...

"Get up and go to the door," her captor's voice ordered. She couldn't look at him. "That's all I need from you today."

 _Today_. Because it was going to happen again, and she had no say in any of it. He was going to break her beyond repair, and nothing could stop him.

She didn't feel herself getting up or moving, but she soon found herself at the door anyway. Thomas soon joined her, and ordered her to start moving back down through the house to get to the cellar.

She walked, and crawled, and climbed, all the while trying not to flinch or cry at the pain coursing from between her legs, and causing her heart to crack...

He shoved her down the last rung of the ladder when they finally got to the cellar, making her stumble into the room, and when she turned to look at him, he smirked.

The smirk of a man who knew that he'd won.

"See you tomorrow," he said, before turning and going back upstairs, all the while humming merrily to himself.

The ladder followed him back up immediately after, and the door slammed with the finality of a life sentence.

A living death sentence.

And only then, in the cold silence and empty loneliness, did C.C. collapse to her knees and start to sob.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 9**_

" _ **Facing the Enemy**_ "

It had been years since Lane had last visited the Garden State. Probably over a decade, if memory didn't fail her. Yes, it had been a decade ago, when her father had passed away at only sixty-seven years of age. A massive heart-attack, the doctors had told Lane, and that there hadn't been anything anyone could have done to save him.

It had destroyed the family – her father had been the most wonderful man Lane had ever met, and he'd been the one who had encouraged her dream of being a police officer (her mother had been more partial to her becoming a nurse or maybe a teacher – more feminine careers, if you will). He'd been his at his proudest when she'd graduated first of her class at police academy, and she remembered that, whenever he'd called her, he'd greet her with a happy (if slightly teasing) "hey, officer!".

Her mother hadn't been able to bear the loneliness afterwards. The house had become way too silent, and eventually Lane had helped sell it and re-settle in Florida (a state Lane rarely visited) and she occasionally came back to visit Lane and her other children.

Ergo, New Jersey had become a distant memory.

At least up until then.

Astonishingly enough, from there being practically no progress in the Babcock case, she suddenly found herself with a plausible suspect and was about to knock on his door, and it was all thanks to Mr Brightmore. He and Miss Babcock's parents had come in the day before and the butler had accused one of Miss Babcock's employees of having taken her. He'd claimed he was the man Miss Babcock had last seen with.

Initially Lane had been sceptical – her staff had done a background check on Thomas, and they hadn't found anything that had warranted their suspicion, but upon closer inspection, Lane had found that, actually, there was a plethora of evidence that pointed at Thomas Jones.

Evidence she'd somehow missed.

Thomas Jones did not have a Ford Bronco registered to his name, that was true, but his father did. It had taken only a few short calls to the Jones family to discover that Mr Jones Sr had loaned his car to his son after he'd totalled his own car in a car crash almost a year ago. Also worrying was the fact that, even though Thomas had never been to jail as an adult, he'd been to juvie several times – twice for truancy and once for underage possession. Moreover, he'd been kicked out of not one, but _two_ schools due to violent fighting with his classmates.

Despite his current façade of being a model, tax-paying citizen, his past was incredibly dark and troubled. Thomas had not always been Thomas Jones – once, he'd been Thomas Russel. He'd been born to poor, illiterate parents, one of whom was a convicted violent alcoholic. Thomas and his siblings had been victimised by their parents, so much so they'd all landed in foster care after Mr Russel Sr had nearly killed Thomas by way of repeatedly beating him with a belt when he was only six years old. He'd later been adopted by doctors Edward and Martha Jones, who'd already had two children of their own at the time.

If this lead went anywhere, then it might've appeared that Mr and Mrs Jones hadn't gotten there in time to stop Thomas from turning out like his biological father after all. Not that they'd failed to do anything else as parents – the Jones family was filthy rich.

Martha and Edward Jones, born and raised in Boston, had met at Harvard Medical School, they'd married young, and had set up their own practice, which had steadily begun to grow until it became one of the best and most exclusive in Boston, effectively proving it an extremely profitable business. They had two biological children of their own, and around the same time said children entered middle school, the couple had decided to adopt a new child into their family – Thomas.

They'd provided their children with everything they could ever need or want, and (almost) all of them had turned out to be extremely successful individuals – Edward Jones Junior, Thomas' adoptive brother, had followed in his parents' footsteps by becoming a doctor and now that his parents had retired, he managed the family business. Helena Jones, Thomas' adoptive sister, was a well-respected engineer and was currently working for NASA.

The black sheep, unsurprisingly, had been Thomas Jones. Unlike his siblings, Thomas had never shown any aptitudes for (or interest in) scholarly pursuits, and being the (admittedly spoiled) baby of the family, his parents had left him to his own devices and had provided him with an impressive bank account and a massive 4200 square feet, fully restored 1930's Queen Anne mansion in one of New Jersey's most exclusive areas. Lane had done some digging about the property, and she'd been more than surprised by what she'd found – the house was a luxurious three-story, eight-bedroom monstrosity, complete with an ample basement, a pool and valued at well over a million dollars! It truly was a millionaire's home! Given the meagre salary theatre assistants perceived, Lane doubted he could have had this kind of life without his parents' help.

He'd had it good, and in Lane's experience entitled men were, more often than note, the worst monsters there could be.

But she had to make a few more enquires before she could arrive at a solid conclusion, in that regard. That's why she'd come to Jersey on the first place – to have a _little talk_ with Mr Jones.

Even with all the evidence she had, and with all the convictions she'd found from his youth, she didn't have the last bit of solid proof which would immediately point to him having done it.

Frustratingly, there was always still the loophole of "correlation not equalling causation", or some such.

But she could still do what she was planning on doing. And she had an extra suspicion beyond that other stuff anyway, based on the evidence Mr Brightmore had given when he'd explained that Thomas had had an…infatuation with Miss Babcock...

The mere thought of what that could mean made her skin crawl. But she knew she couldn't show any kind of hesitation or weakness there.

So, she straightened herself up to make sure the guy knew she meant business when he opened the door, and rang the bell.

She made sure to do so at least thrice, too. She could see that his car was there, indicating that he was home, and she didn't want him giving any excuse like he hadn't heard her at the door.

But, as it turned out, she didn't have to worry about that. Within a minute or so, she heard the security latches on the front door coming undone and it opened after that.

Mr Brightmore had been right. The face she was greeted by certainly looked like the police composite...

He smiled at her – not unpleasantly, but in a manner that suggested he wasn't fully happy to have someone calling at his door, "Can I help you?"

"Hello, Mr Jones," she said, flipping out her badge and showing it to Thomas, "I'm Chief Detective Christine Lane. Do you have time to answer a few questions? It's about your former boss' disappearance, C.C. Babcock."

As usual, Lane watched the suspect's reaction to that information with rapt attention – years' worth of being an investigator had taught her how to carefully read people, and often, when faced with the police knocking at their door, suspects cracked under the pressure and showed signs of nervousness or distress. Thomas, however, seemed to have a tight control on his emotions and didn't show any unease or nervousness.

But neither did he show shock at being asked about his boss nor did he question why that concerned him, two things most innocent people did when they were faced with the police.

Clearly there was a lot more than met the eye here.

"Of course," said the man, swinging the door open and giving a step back, letting the way free, "Do come in."

So, he was that calm and collected about it! A lot of people who got nervous because they seemed to be involved in a case in a potentially big way asked if she had a warrant.

But maybe he knew the difference between asking questions and actually searching the house. It would certainly take more than just Lane on her own to go over this place in any detail!

But she stepped inside anyway. He'd been cooperative so far.

They walked in through the hallway, and Thomas gestured for her to go into a living room off to the left hand side.

The entire place was as luxurious on the inside as it was on the outside, but the inside had the added feature of apparently being spotlessly clean. There wasn't a speck of dust around, the furniture was pristine - heck, even the magazines on the coffee table and the ornaments around were either stacked perfectly or arranged in lines!

It seemed that Thomas kept an orderly place...an unsettlingly orderly place...

"Would you like some coffee while you're here, Detective?" he asked. "I can put a pot on..."

"No, thank you," Lane replied, her eyes still tracing around the room. "I won't be staying long."

It was best to keep that moment lighter than a full-on investigation, and a drink of any kind would only drag it out. Besides, he might insist on her staying in the living room while he made it, and that could open her up to vulnerability if he did turn out to be the guy responsible.

No, it was best if they stayed right where they were. And it was certainly for the best if she could see where he was at all times.

Even if it did mean leaving looking around the house more for when she'd actually gotten a warrant...

"Water, then?" Thomas tried again. He was still wearing the same...odd smile as before. "Surely you have enough time for a glass of water?"

Lane frowned, thinking. Water was harder to tamper with than something with a taste, and it might look suspiciously official if she refused every offer...

Clearly she had to compromise.

"A glass of water should be fine," Lane replied with a polite smile.

"Wonderful. I'll get it for you now," he said and gestured over at the four luxurious leather seats around an antique oak coffee table, "Please, sit down — make yourself at home."

Lane did as she'd been told, and only once she'd settled down on one of the comfortable settees (the only that was closer to the door), did Thomas leave for the kitchen. Her eyes followed him as he went, aware that this next few moments alone were an opportunity to look around with more detail.

Nothing looked really out of the ordinary, but Lane found the unusual neatness a little suspicious. It was almost as if no one were living there! Even though obsessive neatness by itself meant nothing in terms of guilt, Lane had a feeling the man had something to hide.

"Here we go," Thomas said a few moments later, as he returned to the living room carrying a small tray with a cup of coffee for himself and a glass of water for Lane, which he then laid on top of a small coaster on the coffee table. "Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of you being here, Detective Lane?"

Lane took the water and sipped it, making it look like she was just preparing to answer. It tasted normal, and there wasn't any kind of discolouration that she could see, so it had to be safe to continue.

"I just wanted to get a few details about...well, the day that C.C. Babcock went missing."

This was the part where suspects in movies might scoff, point to themselves and say "What, you think I had something to do with it?". Then they'd laugh a little harder, as though the notion were completely ridiculous. Some people even did that in real life, not knowing any other way to behave when they were put under the slightest bit of scrutiny.

But Thomas handled it far more calmly than that. Probably a result of his previous run-ins with police officers, as well as a side effect of being abused as a child - both those things could lead to someone hiding things well, or to them becoming a good liar.

"Alright," he said. "What do you want to know?"

So, here it went. Time for Lane to get to work and do a little more investigating. There might only be so much she could do, looking around one room, but talking to the man himself could reveal something unexpected.

"Where were you, on the day of her disappearance?"

Thomas eyebrows knitted into a mild frown, almost as if he were trying to recall what he'd done on that day. Of course, Lane's question had been made carefully, and there was a small trap hidden in her seemingly innocuous question. The date of Miss Babcock's disappearance wasn't public knowledge. If he fell for it and said what he'd done on that day, he'd be incriminating himself. After all, how could he have known exactly when she'd gone missing if he had nothing to do with it? How could he have known the date it had happened when it hadn't been made public?

These were the ins and outs of police interrogation – it was, to some degree, a study in human nature. Years in the force had taught lane which buttons to push and what things to say to get certain reactions out of people; she'd essentially learnt how to emotionally manipulate interviewees into saying what she wanted them to say.

Still, she wasn't infallible, and she had a feeling that Mr Jones was well aware of the game she was playing.

"Forgive me, but when did Miss Babcock go missing?" Thomas eventually said, and Lane had to fight the urge to groan.

"23rd of May," she replied, "Almost six weeks ago."

"I see," Thomas said, nodding gravely, "Well, in that case, I don't really remember, Detective Lane – I suppose I must have been at home."

Some might've considered that so convincing that they'd have ended that line of questioning there and moved onto something else. But Lane knew better than to leave it at that.

Lane knew _more_ than to leave it at that, and she was eventually intending on letting him know.

Eventually. She was going to give it another shot at getting him to incriminate himself.

"Really?" she asked, managing to keep her voice level. It was hard, when she knew that something just wasn't right about anything that was going on there. "You were here all day? You didn't go out at all?"

Thomas appeared to think again, but this time he came back sooner with a shake of his head and a shrug.

"As far as I'm aware. I didn't need anything, and I didn't have to go to work that day. There wouldn't be much of a reason for me to go out otherwise."

Lane picked up her glass of water, thinking about those words and the stereotype of the "awkward loner" that fit the profile of so many killers...

Not that she was thinking that anything quite so extreme had happened - yet. She didn't know what could turn up, if they didn't find C.C...

But Thomas had just set himself up perfectly for what she wanted to say next.

"So the fact that C.C. Babcock was seen getting into a white Ford Bronco with a man who matched your description is purely coincidental?"

She then sipped at her drink.

Thomas' expression did change then. But it wasn't in the "caught red handed" way that Lane had hoped. Instead, it was more surprised, than anything else.

He blinked as he replied, "Huh. Well, that's a weird coincidence!"

Lane put her glass down again, making sure she didn't reveal any frustration by accidentally slamming it down on the coaster.

"And it _is_ just a coincidence?" she asked, turning her eyes up to look at his face.

She wanted to see if his expression changed again - perhaps to something more panicked by the fact that she wasn't letting it go.

But he didn't, and he had his own well-reasoned response to give.

"It has to be; I was here all day, as much as I remember," he said. He then shrugged again. "I guess a lot of people must own Ford Broncos..."

That did it for Lane — this man was taking her for a fool! Pleasantries had to be dropped. It was time to get on the offensive.

Thomas knew something, and it was up to her to find out what it was.

"Do you take me for a fool, Mr Jones?" Lane very nearly hissed, her steely eyes fixed on Thomas' grey ones.

"On the contrary, Detective," he replied, leaning his upper body towards Lane's – he was defying her. Showing he was not backing off. "You are an outstandingly smart individual."

Lane could have scoffed. Insincere flattery was not going to get him anywhere.

"Then why are you wasting my time?" she said, her voice having lost the cordiality it had once had. "What have you done with Miss Babcock? She was last seen in your car!"

Thomas huffed out a humourless laugh and slumped against the back of his seat. He looked infuriatingly calm and collected — like he wasn't being affected by the accusations made against him. It was here when innocent people would vehemently proclaim their innocence, and demand that the police to look somewhere else.

But not Thomas.

If anything his attitude looked like he was challenging them. He was making his stance on the matter clear.

"Prove it." he cooed mockingly, a malicious smile soon appearing on his face.

The words made Lane feel like she was burning up inside. It wasn't often that she let the fire causing it to burn out of control, either. But occasionally, it was necessary.

It gave clarity when one was confused, and set about helping one to resolve the issue.

And, in this case, Lane was going to see how much she could resolve the issue by bringing in backup. Getting someone to look through every nook and cranny in the place...!

All she had to do was get a warrant. And Thomas speaking to her like he had gave her more of an incentive than ever.

She glowered back at his smug, jeering features.

"Oh, I will. And you won't be able to stop me, once I have a search warrant," Lane spat, and she watched with certain amount of satisfaction how Thomas' smug smile quickly dropped away.

Clearly, the mention of a search warrant was a matter for concern to him, something that only supported Lane's certainty that she had to round this guy up; force him to give up Miss Babcock's whereabouts.

"Fine then," the man replied (practically hissed), getting to his feet. He'd lost any semblance of cordiality and politeness that he'd once had by this point. There was something menacing about his person, but Lane had no intention of shrinking in fear.

Not when Miss Babcock depended on her.

"Get out of my house," ordered Thomas, pointing at the door. "You are not welcome here."

Of course she wasn't. She'd just figured him out, and he didn't like that at all.

But she wasn't going to stay, now that she'd been asked to leave. She'd be back, soon enough, and maybe this whole thing would be over...

"Fine," she said, rising to her feet.

Thomas followed her through to the hallway, never letting his eyes off her for an instant. Lane could practically feel them burning holes in the back of her head, until she got both feet out the door.

That was when she turned and cleared her throat at him, "Your time has been most productive, Mr Jo–"

The door slamming shut in her face halted her sentence. Lane huffed in frustration – she should've seen that coming, really.

But she didn't have any time to waste on that.

She rummaged around in her pocket for her cell phone, dialled a number she was very familiar with, and waited for the other end to be picked up.

She didn't have to wait long.

"Officer Walters? It's Lane. Listen – I need to submit an affidavit requesting a search warrant for Thomas Jones' home," she told her, glaring at the door. "This guy is hiding something, and I am going to find out exactly what it is."


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter 10**_

 _Coping_

Six weeks. To be more specific and precise, six weeks, four days, nine hours, and...thirty minutes. Niles didn't know if it was lucky that he had a watch or not – it kept him punctual for any meetings he had to attend with Lane these days, but at the same time it reminded him exactly how long Miss Babcock had been gone.

It wasn't like it appeared that was about to change any time soon, either. He called Lane practically every day, venturing on the side of demanding to know where they were with the investigation and search warrant that the detective kept insisting she was waiting for.

Waiting. That felt like a cop-out, if he'd ever heard one. If it had been his responsibility, he'd have marched straight to that judge's office and demanded the warrant there and then, by now.

Miss Babcock could be in that bastard's house, just out of reach, and the only thing keeping her from freedom was a sheet of sodding paper!

It made his blood boil, to even think of it...

What hurt the most about that was, deep down, he knew he wasn't angry at Lane. He was really angry at himself, for allowing things to get this far. If it hadn't been for his bloody prank, none of this would even be happening!

And, just to rub salt in the already open and bleeding wound, he was useless when it came to trying to make anything better!

He tried to relieve some of the built-up adrenaline (and distract himself from the hurt and self-hatred) by re-cleaning the kitchen, but it was no use. There were only so many chores he could do in the mansion whilst waiting for Lane to give him another update (before he called her, yet again). Because no one felt like doing much around the place, it meant that messes were small – if they were made – and easily cleaned up right away.

He'd even started to run out of imaginary stains to wipe up, and he was certain that he was near to peeling the enamel off the tiles with how much and how hard he was scrubbing them...

He needed to do something else. Something useful, that he knew a butler could do...

That was when it struck him, and he let the cloth he'd been polishing the counter to a high sheen with drop from his hand, into the sink.

No one had been to Miss Babcock's apartment in weeks. Chester had been with them, so no one had seen any need to go over!

The place would be in serious need of cleaning. That was definitely something he could do. And he wasn't going to wait for permission from Mr Sheffield, either. He didn't feel like he could wait, before he grabbed his keys and jacket, and headed out the door.

The traffic was light on the way, but it felt endless and the streets seemed to wind more than they had ever done before. Cabs and cars, buses and bikes all seemed to get in his way whenever he was trying to move, and he could've sworn that he should've come to the right turning at least two streets ago...!

It was close to making his head spin, but he knew had to focus. He was going to the penthouse for a reason, and he wasn't about to be put off from his task by how complicated it felt to get there. It was only his sense of urgency, making everything feel like it was taking longer than it actually was. His own mind was just acting against him in yet another way...

His sense of timekeeping was relieved when he finally pulled into the parking lot of Miss Babcock's building. Once he'd parked and switched the engine off, one more quick look at his watch told him that he'd arrived in the exact same amount of time as he always did, emergency or not.

Having a stupidly fine-tuned sense of urgency really was a kick in the trouser furniture...

He got out of the car, locked it up, and began to head towards the building's next level. That was where the lobby was, as well as the elevators. On the way, he began rehearsing what he was going to say in his head if Miss Babcock's doorman or her neighbours decided to stop him and ask about how the case was developing.

Thankfully, he didn't bump into any of Miss Babcock's neighbours, and the doorman merely tipped his hat when he went past him, towards the elevators. Good – he wasn't in the mood to have any form of interaction with other human beings. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

He rode the elevator in silence, clutching at the spare key to C.C.'s apartment in his left hand, and soon enough he was slipping it into the lock and turning it two times before twisting the handle and pushing the door open.

Although he'd been there to clean the mess he'd found when Miss Babcock had first gone missing, there still was a staleness in the air – a distinct smell of abandonment and disuse. He supposed it was only natural, but it depressed him greatly.

It was yet another reminder that she was not there.

Not there, and possibly never coming back...

It made him (briefly) wonder what the point of everything was, but he dismissed that notion from his head. The point of what he was currently doing was to make him feel useful.

He had to be the one to do something about cleaning up. This was something he had control over, and could keep him a little more occupied until more information became available.

It could keep him sane, until he knew what was going on...

Not wishing to breathe in any more stale air, he went to the windows and opened them all.

Encouraging a breeze through the room was the first step to getting the place seeming like a home again already. He left the air to travel through the apartment and clear it out (most of it, anyway), and went into the kitchen to see about getting some cleaning utensils.

He knew that Miss Babcock herself would never touch the things, but they had to be there – for emergencies, or for when her hired cleaner couldn't bring her own.

He found them under the sink, pulled them out and, after checking the use by dates on the cans and packages, set to work. He started with the kitchen – countertops (all made of the finest marble money could pay for), windows, floors; they all were scrubbed thoroughly until they shone. The fridge was next (after he'd gotten rid of the spoiled and rotting food inside it, of course), and the cooker and dishwasher followed.

He cleaned until there was a distinct smell of lemon pledge impregnated to the air around him – the hallmark of a job well done, he'd learnt back when he was still a trainee butler.

He then moved on to the living room. He still remembered (with a certain amount of disgust) the fateful morning he'd walked in to find an empty apartment and dog shit-galore on Miss Babcock's expensive carpet. It had taken him several days (and industrial quantities of Resolve carpet cleaner) to get everything back to some sort of normality. He'd talked to Stewart about it, and in record time the man had had the entire carpet pulled up and replaced by even better and more expensive carpeting. Still, vacuuming a carpet, no matter how new or clean, never hurt no one.

By the time he was finished with it , the entire thing was as soft and fluffy as it had been the day it was put down. He couldn't help but think at first that it was almost as though no one had ever walked on it, but he quickly dismissed that.

He didn't like thinking that no one had ever walked on it. That could lead to the implication that no one ever _would_ walk on it, either, and it hurt deeply to think that that could be the case.

He much preferred the image of Miss Babcock in her nicest pyjamas, waking up on a weekend morning that she didn't have to be in at work and padding into the living area to put the television on...

Alive and unhurt. At home and comfortable. Safe.

He imagined that until it began to hurt as much as knowing the truth. That was when he moved on, to look for something else to work on.

The dining room came next. It took a lot of reaching over and a large amount of polish to get the table buffed to the same high sheen he had managed to achieve in the kitchen. The chairs and the ornaments all followed, and the floor also received a vacuuming unlike any it had ever had.

If circumstances had been different, he would have shown all of this work to Miss Babcock and perhaps implied that he should come over to clean for her more often...

But that wasn't going to happen. He knew she'd never allow such a thing.

If...when...if...she returned, he wouldn't be welcome in her home anymore. Not that he could blame her – it had been his own stupidity what had caused this whole mess to begin with. In his eyes he was just as guilty as the bastard who had taken her.

He'd never be able to make it up to her. He could try, yes, but he was pretty sure that nothing he ever did to try and redeem himself, would amount to the damage he'd caused. Still, that didn't necessarily mean that he had to give up trying – he owed her, and he planned on trying to repay his debt however way he could. Presently, he was doing so by moving on to clean Miss Babcock's study.

He wasn't surprised to find it in disarray – piles of assorted papers sat atop practically every flat surface, there were a number of empty coffee mugs scattered all over the room, her extra pair of reading glasses were out of their case, still sitting on top of the last document Miss Babcock had been going through…

There even was a pair of Miss Babcock's pumps carelessly discarded beneath her desk!

It all was proof that this was the study of someone who, when they'd left, had planned on going back.

Pushing past the painful churning in his stomach, he set about seeing what he could straighten up about the place. The coffee mugs could definitely go – they wouldn't be of any use where they were, and a couple of them were on their way to forming their own brand-new ecosystems.

He took them away to the kitchen as quickly as possible, washing them out and putting them back in the cupboard. He then returned to the rest of the chaos in the room, and began to work out just what he would do with it all.

He didn't know how many of the papers even applied anymore – some of them could be for the now-cancelled musical, for all he knew. They definitely wouldn't be needed again, unless Miss Babcock kept a record of absolutely everything...

He knew she wouldn't appreciate it (therefore making it detrimental to his efforts) if he threw everything out without asking her, or letting her check it over first. The best he could do was neaten up the piles. So, he picked them all up to dust around and underneath them, and then got all the piles stacked back where they were – all straight, present and correct.

He even re-angled the last document that her eyes had been on, and he traced the words of the paper lightly with his fingers. He knew what the document was talking about, and how important it would all be for the company, but it wasn't as thought any of it mattered anymore.

All that mattered was that she'd been reading it, using the glasses that he folded back up and left on the desk for their owner to hopefully return to. He then picked up Miss Babcock's shoes – a pair of black leather Louboutin heels. They were a favourite of Miss Babcock, and he remembered she'd used them the day before she'd gone missing…

Niles sighed as he lined them up by the study's door. He would give everything he had and would ever have to go back in time to that day; the day of his heart attack. He would have done things differently – for a start, he would have thanked her for having saved his life, and he would have confessed to loving her. He would have begged her to stay, and warn her not to get on any car that wasn't hers or a cab.

He would have protected her…

But he hadn't, and everything that was currently surrounding him – her shoes, furniture, glasses – was a stark reminder that she was not there. It was a damning reminder that this was his fault.

Niles had to shut his eyes tightly and huff out a strangled cry. He was overwhelmed, even if part of him felt he had no right to be.

That was the part of him that had the thought – the hateful truth, really. It knew that he had no right to be in agony over something he had caused in the first place.

Yet he was anyway. And that only made him feel even more guilty, knowing that he wasn't having the right reaction – any ordinary, non-selfish person would have gone away with their misery. They wouldn't have tried to get involved with looking for the search.

They'd be perfectly aware that they'd already done enough.

And yet, there he was. Still trying to get involved, like he was some sort of hero, instead of a villain in this story.

At least he was getting his penance for it. That was the best outcome there could be for him, really – he deserved the pain he was feeling, and to have to spend his time trying to make up for something he'd never be able to...

But he still had the guest room, the bathroom, and Miss Babcock's en-suite bedroom, left to do. Even if it was barely part of his punishment completed and he was already feeling like falling to the floor and letting the ground swallow him whole, he wasn't going to leave the job undone.

He resumed his cleaning then, trying to shake the heaviness that seemed to have latched to his heart with outstanding determination. He chose to work on the guest room next – there wasn't much to do in there apart from vacuuming, changing the bedlinen and dusting the furniture.

Come to think of it, he'd never been to her guest's room before. Much like Miss Babcock herself, the room had a sober kind of elegance about it – white carpeting covering the floor, modern Scandinavian-style furniture, walls of a classy off-grey colour, and tasteful decoration here and there. He noticed there was a rather sizeable painting hanging atop the chest of drawers, clearly occupying pride of place – it was a Monet, if he wasn't mistaken.

It was during moments like this when Niles was remembered of just how rich Miss Babcock was. How powerful and influential she was.

She was a giantess among mortals – one that had worked her way up in Showbiz on her own merit. She'd had to prove herself worthy in an industry dominated by men, and by way of wrestling a few egos and cutting a number of rivals down to size, she'd made it to the top.

It was hard to think that such a woman was currently being held against her will…

He didn't imagine she'd have gone quietly – if he knew Babcock (and he did), she'd have put up an almighty fight. She'd have fought until the very end.

He shook his head again, trying extra hard to get that thought out. He had to stop thinking of the word "end". It was too...final, and had too many negative connotations attached to it.

The worst being that they'd never find her, alive or...not...

He must have vacuumed the room to the same quality as everywhere else in the place, and then gone over it again to really make sure. It was either that, or he was so determined to get free of the thought that he tried twice as hard to distract himself from how much the pain stung in his chest and behind his eyes...

It wasn't fully working, though. He could feel himself growing heavier with every step that he took, and the tears were threatening to spill over onto the clean carpet.

But he refused to mess the place up again on any level. He was trying to make it up to her, not let his pain overshadow everything else that was going on!

He left the room before it could happen, and he went to go and clean the bathroom. At least he could wash his face in there, if he needed to. And then he'd clean the evidence away...

The main bathroom was just as elegant as everywhere else in the penthouse, and mostly clean, considering that Miss Babcock probably kept all of her personal products in her en suite bathroom.

It didn't help that she probably rarely had guests - the soap left in the dish looked untouched, underneath the fine layer of dust covering both it and everything else. The toilet paper hadn't even been started, either.

That did nothing to assuage his guilt. Not only had he driven the producer into the clutches of an evil monster, he'd probably succeeded in making sure that she felt more alone than ever...

He wondered if she knew there were people out looking for her. He hoped that she did – it might give her something to lift her spirits, and the determination to survive until they had found her.

She was a fighter anyway, that had already long since been established. But the knowledge that she wasn't alone could give her that extra push...

His own spirits lifted for a second, but then took another nosedive as he realised that even if she did know there were people out looking, she wouldn't care if he was one of them.

He'd done far too much to her – was still doing, indirectly, through his part in the situation she was currently in – for her to ever think that he cared about her enough to want her around. Why should she, in return, think about or care that he wanted her back?

That was, if she believed that he wanted her back. There was plenty of apparent evidence that he didn't, and out of all the people who'd seen them interact in the past, how many would believe him when he said he did?

The people who knew the truth would almost certainly be in the minority.

He finished cleaning the bathroom fairly quickly after that thought. He didn't end up needing to use the sink to wash his face – the tears wouldn't come, as much as the guilt and the anger hurt.

He had more important things to worry about, at any rate.

There was only one place left in the penthouse to see about clearing, and he wasn't going to let it go without because of his own stupid, useless feelings that had no bearing on what was going on.

Her room.

In all of the years he'd known Miss Babcock, he'd never been allowed into her private space. He'd been allowed into her living room on the rare occasions he'd had to either pick up or deliver important paperwork that needed signing from Miss Babcock or Mr Sheffield, but he'd never stayed more than a couple of minutes, and she'd never asked him if he wanted to sit down for a moment or have something to drink. Not that he would have stayed, even if she had asked him to. Back then he'd still been too busy trying to one-up her to actually try and show his feelings for her in a more positive and healthy way.

It was simply one of those times were it became painfully obvious that hindsight was twenty-twenty, and that he'd been the biggest fool to ever walk this Earth for not having behaved differently around her.

He remembered that, in the privacy of his room, he'd dreamed of being in her room many a time. Usually his fantasies would entail them being clinched in a tight embrace in bed as they made love, or them spooning and sleeping peacefully, like any other loving couple.

That was in stark contrast to his current reality – opening the door to an empty and silent room.

He had avoided going into Miss Babcock's room on the other occasions he'd come to her home after she'd been abducted, but as it was becoming evident the more he looked around, her room was in desperate need of a good cleaning.

The bed was unmade, there were a number of dirty clothes heaped up in a small pile in the far left corner of her room, there were even more dirty coffee mugs stacked on top of her night-table, and a pair of light-blue satin pyjamas were lying on the floor, just next to her bed.

For a moment, all he could do was stand there and look at it.

This was the place that she'd woken up that morning, only to never return to it that night. She'd left it exactly as she intended to find it – she might have even been looking forward to going to sleep that night, safe and sound...

Instead, she was in an unknown location. He had no idea if she was even able to sleep, or if she was in too much pain to even try...

It was getting close to him being in too much pain to even try.

His heart attack hadn't even hurt as much as this. But he knew it didn't matter - he had to swallow that hurt back, and get on with the job he was there to do.

Even if the gravity felt heavier in this room than anywhere else he'd ever been. He almost collapsed as he bent over and reached down to start grabbing the clothes, intending to put them in the hamper so they could go in the laundry.

That practical line of thinking was the only thing that could keep him going. It forced him to think of something other than the pain.

But he knew he was weakening, even still...

That's why he chose to leave her pyjamas on the floor while he cleaned the rest of the room. He didn't think he could bring himself to pick it up without collapsing. He was very careful not to step on it when he did her bed, and he was also meticulous about it not being touched by the vacuum when he was cleaning the carpet around it.

It was nearly three hours (during which he'd rinsed the dirty mugs, washed, dried and ironed her clothes, and exhaustively cleaned her en-suite bathroom) until Niles had to face the fact that he could no longer delay picking up her pyjamas.

The one item of clothing that, to him, was a testament to her being missing.

Sighing, he set to do it, but he soon found he needed to perch on the side of her bed in order to pick up the garments – otherwise, he feared his shaky legs would not hold his weight. Especially when he felt like he was lifting two half-ton weights rather than a two-piece pyjama.

What he wasn't prepared for, however, was detecting her scent coming from her pyjamas. And not just any scent – her natural scent, when perfume was wearing off and mixing with her personal smell.

It filled his heart with the ghost of a kind of warmth he knew would only become real when it was her, really her, he was breathing in, not used clothes that had lain on the floor of the comfortable penthouse, in a comfortable life, that she had been snatched from nearly a month ago.

But, at the same time, there was pain.

Nearly unbearable pain.

And it was that pain that finally broke him. Like a dam bursts under the pressure of too much water, the cement of its thick walls cracking and splitting open to let the water burst through, so too did his eyes painfully close and let forth the tears that had been building since the moment he'd stepped foot in that apartment.

It didn't take more than a few seconds for him to dissolve into sobs after that. And they were awful, loud, hideous cries - noises that Niles had never imagined he could make. That any living thing could make!

He didn't want to be a living thing anymore. Not when he had been the start of all of this, and his continued existence was an insult to Miss Babcock and her loved ones. If he had been the one to disappear, or to have never even been born in the first place, then everything would've been alright!

She would have gone about her life, in one instance not caring that there wasn't a butler-shaped hole in the mansion she'd called her workplace, and in the other not knowing at all that there might once (in some time or place) have been a man named Niles Brightmore, who loved her with all his heart.

He didn't know how, but the next thing he'd realised, he'd fallen onto his side so that he was lying on the mattress, holding the pyjamas to his face and wetting them with his tears.

The sheets and the pyjamas were cold, and soft in the way a human body wasn't, but it was all he had. And it was comfortable.

Part of him wished he could simply close his eyes and imagine that they'd fallen asleep together; no one had been taken against their will, the other wasn't missing them with such force that it felt like their soul had been ripped from their body, there was no investigation going on that could take years or grow cold or turn up the worst possible news.

There was only them, with their arms wrapped around each other, in the bliss of a relaxed afternoon. Perhaps they'd been out that morning, had coffee, and decided to take a nap. They'd exhausted themselves bantering and laughing and joking, and he'd been able to tell her he loved her, and there was no pain and nothing was wrong.

"I am so very sorry, C.C.," he whispered into the fabric, "This is all my fault."

The silence that followed his words was damning. Damning and, to some extent, final. It really brought home just how powerless he was. He could hope for the best and devote his time and effort to finding her, but when push comes to shove, it all came down to luck. Luck of her kidnapper making a mistake or luck of her managing to run away from where she was being kept.

Either way, he was powerless.

And he had no way of being anything else.

He didn't know how long he stayed there. He didn't really care, either. The entire world could've moved on without him and it wouldn't have mattered one iota.

If it wasn't moving for her, he didn't want it to go on for him, either. Day and night, mealtimes, and what rest he could get were all rapidly becoming meaningless anyway. He thought he might as well just turn to stone where he was, frozen forever in time as New York City carried on and rapidly forgot that he'd ever once been there.

But just as he thought to close his eyes and just let it happen (slipping away with something of hers in his arms felt better than nothing at all), a buzzing in his pocket forced him to open them again.

His phone. That blasted thing that kept him tied to an investigation he was desperate to hear more from, and yet still felt too useless to be a part of.

Nevertheless, sighing and reaching into his pocket, he pulled it out and answered.

"Hello?"

"Mr Brightmore, it's Detective Lane."

In his heightened emotional state, it became very easy for part of his mind to bitterly ask what she could possibly want. Everything had been so slow (glacier pace, was more like it), the pessimist in him couldn't think that there might be anything new to talk about at this point.

He'd been set up for so much hurt and disappointment throughout, he didn't want to open himself up to any more.

But at the same time, he knew he needed that information more than anything else in the world. If – and the pessimist in him stressed the word if - it was good news, it could mean the beginning of the end for the worst nightmare he'd ever had.

So, he had to listen. He didn't think that he could make it as far as sitting up yet, but he could listen to what the detective had to say.

"Hello, Detective Lane," he didn't really try to hide the fact that he had been crying. She'd either hear it or she wouldn't – neither outcome mattered to him. "How can I help you?"

Again, the notion of actually being able to help came back to him as ridiculous. He hadn't done anything that would actually make a difference to anybody, and he was sure that he wouldn't in the future.

And yet, he'd said it anyway. He'd always end up saying it, even if he knew there was no point because he couldn't.

Not that that seemed to matter to Lane, "There's nothing that I currently need your help with, Mr Brightmore–"

Surprising no one, Niles thought to himself sardonically.

" –but I know that you've been waiting on updates for this, so I thought it best to tell you that I have just received the warrant to search the property of one Mr Thomas Jones."

She...she finally had the warrant?

Niles felt himself slowly rising back up off the mattress and he felt his spirits lift a little bit back off the floor. Not all the way, but it was enough to give him hope.

Hope that they would find something. Some sort of incriminating evidence in the house, which would either lead to an even more thorough search, or maybe to them even finding C.C. herself!

Then they'd arrest the bastard, and she could come home at long last...

The thought nearly overwhelmed him all over again, even if he didn't want to get his hopes up. He couldn't help it, in a sense - it had taken so long to get to the moment they were in that he'd placed a lot of expectations on it.

And that led to him having a number of questions. Again, all born from his eagerness to see the case closed and the producer found.

Found, and safe.

"You finally have it?" he asked, sniffing a little. "What happens now? Do you get to go in and search the property right away?"

"Not right away," replied the police officer, "We want to take him by surprise — fall on him when he's least expecting it."

"That sounds... reasonable," Niles said, "Will it be soon?"

He couldn't help asking — after weeks of practically no advancement, he found his patience was little. They had to act fast, so that the bastard wouldn't be able to hurt Miss Babcock no more. They had to act fast, he knew, before his temper got the best of him and he barged into the house himself.

"Tonight," said Lane — the steely edge to her voice was evident. Ever-present whenever Lane was working.

The pessimistic part of Niles was now just hoping that she was working hard enough.

He had to hope. This could mean the end of the nightmare if so.

"Good," he said, again letting out a breath which probably spoke of his relief at having something finally happening.

"I will of course update you on the outcome of the search," Lane replied. "But for now, I think that's about it. Unless there's anything else you'd like to know?"

There wasn't for the time being, so after a quick goodbye, Niles hung up and left the detective to get on with her work. He had all he needed to know for the time being.

The hope, no matter how small, allowed him to finish off cleaning the last of C.C.'s bedroom. Afterwards, he took one last look around and imagined her coming home to find it spotless. To find it warm, welcoming and clean...

He didn't know if they'd find her that time. He couldn't hope that much, no matter how hard he wanted it to be true. But as he took one last, lingering look before closing the front door behind him, he knew he'd come back to clean the place every time it needed him to, until its owner returned.

He hoped she'd like it, whenever that moment finally came.

Fear had, up until very recently, not been part of C.C. Babcock's vocabulary. Having been a self-sufficient individual since a very young age, C.C. had always been of the opinion to tackle things head on, regardless of how challenging or difficult the situation might be.

That had been the secret to her success. Not that she wasn't familiar with failure (because she was), but she'd learn how to bite the proverbial bullet when she had to, pick herself up and move on. The way to the top wasn't smooth – it was an uphill climb, filled with impossibly steep slopes, sheer drops, and slippery pathways. Many a time she'd taken a nosedive, scraping her palms and knees until they were bleeding, but every time she'd found it in her to rise up again.

Every time someone had even tried to put her down, she'd dig her heels in and stand her ground.

Every time… until now.

Never in her entire life had she imagined that someday she'd be in this position. Never in her life had she imagined that she'd suffer from a fall that she simply couldn't recover from.

A fall so great that it still hurt in her deepest being.

Four days it had been since… _the event_ (she found it easier to call it by that name rather than by its true one) had happened. She knew because Thomas had brought her dinner every night, and he'd relished in what he perceived as his artwork.

She hadn't been able to sleep more than a few hours – truth to be told, she didn't even want to sleep. Because, every time she closed her eyes, she relieved the horror. She relieved the moment that bastard had decided to take everything from her, whether she'd wanted it or not.

She felt dirty. So very dirty. Even dirtier than she'd been before her shower. The grime, and the filth and the sickness were inside her, and she had no idea how to get it out.

It hurt too much to move a lot, both inside her still and out. She only did when she absolutely had to, like when Thomas brought the food. She didn't want to give him an excuse to say she wasn't obeying him and beat her, or to say that she obviously wasn't hungry and then have him eat it in front of her.

The rest of the time, she stayed where she was. On her mattress, on the floor, and wishing that the cold, hard floor would let her just sink into it until it swallowed her entirely.

That kind of abyss had to be better than the one she was in, and couldn't escape from.

She didn't even have the will to answer back to Niles, and all the talk that he'd been giving ever since she'd been thrown back down there. If she couldn't even do that, how could she possibly get out of where she was?

How could she live to face what she now was?

" _You are no more and no less than you ever were,"_ the voice argued back to that thought, clearly annoyed by her insinuation but also trying to remain soothing at the same time. _"You mustn't forget that. It won't do you any good, and you need every bit of strength that you possess - and I know it's there - to keep going. Because you have to keep going, Babcock."_

 _Keep going..._

That was a laugh.

What did she want to keep going for? To continue living in this Hell on Earth? To be Thomas' little tot until he broke her entirely? It didn't sound like a promising prospect, and frankly, if this was going to be her life then she'd rather have no life at—

" _I am stopping you right there!"_ the voice said (practically barked), making her flinch, _"Don't say idiotic things! You and I know that you have plenty of things to live for—"_

"Shut up!" rasped the producer, unable to tolerate his imagined words. She couldn't help but pressing her hands to her eyes — she could feel a fresh wave of tears coming. "That's bullshit and you know it!"

" _It is not!"_ the voice insisted. He sounded more authoritative than ever, like he had all the answers when he couldn't possibly. _"You have every reason to live, and being where you are now does not take any of them away!"_

"Doesn't it?!" she hissed back, wanting to do nothing but curl up so tight that she disappeared into nothing. Much like she had apparently done to the outside world. "The things you say I should live for aren't exactly helping me down here, are they?!"

She knew that there wasn't anything he could say to that. Nothing that normal people could want to live for meant anything where she was. And especially not after what had happened to her...

" _They can, if you'll just let them,"_ the voice tried again. It sounded softer this time, but just as trying. _"Think about all the things that you know you could live for. All the people you know you could live for, and would argue with you like I'm doing, to help you get back on your feet..."_

Even if it had gotten around having nothing to say to her thought, what the voice had said felt like something of a laugh, as well. She didn't want to exist, let alone think, and the idea that there was anything she could think of which didn't hurt to have in her mind was remote.

It became even more remote when she thought of people. None of them would want to see her like this...

" _Oh, very well then — if you don't want to think, distract your mind."_ it said, _"And if thoughts of those who love you come up, welcome them. Let them comfort you in the dark. Let them be the light you so desperately need..."_

C.C. didn't reply to that either. But still, she listened. As much as she'd like to deny it, she knew that the voice (a voice that, ultimately, was a creation of her own mind) was right. This was her own will to live speaking. It was still there, dimmed and weak, but it was there still. There was a part of her (a huge chunk of her) that simply didn't want to go on, but there was fight in her still.

She didn't know how much longer it would last for, but she had to rely on it, and hope for it to be enough to endure the horror. Thomas had done his very best to break her beyond repair, and he had almost succeeded. She was broken, there was no denying, but she still had hope. She _had_ to have hope.

Otherwise she'd go mad.

Nevertheless, she couldn't bear to think of her loved ones. Not for long, at any rate. The thought of her parents, her brother, Niles or the Sheffields, cut her deeper than she cared to admit, and thinking about them would only make the longing worse.

She could, however, tolerate thinking about their names and the feeling they evoked in her. It was hard to explain, but the thought of the words Daddy or Noel were soothing. She wasn't ready to think about them per se, but their names were a good start.

" _See? That's better thinking already,_ " the voice was softer now, and it made her feel...not happier, but certainly calmer. " _It doesn't have to be too much – just enough to keep you on the right track. And you have made an excellent start, right there..."_

C.C. didn't feel like she'd made that much of a start, if she was honest. But if the voice had said it was good, then she supposed she at least had to try and see what she had done as being something good.

" _Ah, see? Now you're listening to me,"_ the voice was probably joking a little to try and keep the positive reinforcement going. " _You can be strong, even after this. All you have to do is keep going, with these new thoughts..."_

 _New thoughts._ C.C. hoped that they'd stay as wanted ones, and not develop or dissolve into anything else.

But she also knew that she'd never get anywhere if she didn't try. She'd never find out if they turned out to be good or bad thoughts, and she'd be stuck even more than she already was.

She had to try. And there was no time to practice like the present.

Slowly, C.C. eased herself up and off of the mattress and half-walked half-crawled to her table. Thomas had left her a few new crossword compendiums that she'd refused to touch, but considering what the voice had said, perhaps perusing them didn't seem like the worst of ideas. If it helped distract her mind from the horrible memories of what had happened to her the other night, she was more than willing to give it a go.

Every movement hurt, every breath was agony, but the moment she found herself sitting in her chair, she felt a sense of accomplishment washing over her. Not to mention it briefly brought her out of the near-constant remembering of her...of...of _the event_.

She immediately looked to the things on the table, steering clear away from the thought that had almost developed in her head. The books were within easy reach, and she grabbed the nearest one and the pen that had been tossed in with them to start on the first page.

The compendiums were all easy crosswords – much simpler than she was used to doing. Not that it really mattered so much, seeing as it was the only kind of puzzle she had access to and she couldn't exactly ask for anything else. And some of the answers were difficult enough to get her thinking about the clues...

She'd finished three and started a fourth before she began to wonder how long she'd been working on them. It had been more of a distraction than she'd imagined it would be at first...!

" _Perhaps you should look for something else?"_ the voice came back to suggest. _"You don't want to run out of too many things at once..."_

That was a point. She didn't know how long it would take to get any new entertainment, so she'd have to ration the crosswords carefully. And if just a couple of them had kept her occupied for a little while, then there had to be something else there that would help just as much...

She cast her eyes over the table, and nothing really caught her interest until her gaze landed on a book of knitting patterns.

She reached over (ignoring the ache it gave her to do so) and pulled it towards her, flicking through the items that could be made.

Again, nothing caught her interest until she let the page flip over to the instructions for making a scarf. It looked like it took a long time. She did have wool, too - she'd just never thought to use it. There were needles there, too...

She could make it, one square at a time, and then...then what?

Well, if she was thinking positive, she might as well go all the way. She'd wait with it, to see if she ever got out of that place.

After thinking briefly of a name, she chose the blue wool to get started, and told herself that it was because it matched _his_ eyes.

That was all she dared to think, and that was what she'd do. She'd make the scarf and do her crosswords, and hold fast throughout whatever came next.

She flattened the page out to read it as she went along, getting the wool set up along with the needles.

She'd do it, she told herself, just to see if she could give her real voice of hope the gift she'd made for him.


	12. Chapter 12

_**AN: So sorry for the delay! Life has been a little crazy as of late, and we couldn't write much. Anyway, do enoy and we'd love to read your reviews!**_

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

" _Oversight"_

"Move! Pick up your feet and go!"

It was hard enough to get her back to her room whilst carrying the duvet and sheets; the last thing Thomas needed was for her to disobey his direct command and just stop where they were! He was done with her for the night (for the next several nights, he thought with glee, feeling his nether regions twitch at the memory of what he'd just done to her), and the last thing he wanted was to have to drop the soiled bed-linens on his clean floor while he had to punish her for not doing as she was told!

Besides, blood left worse stains, and if he had to smack her across the face again, he might end up doing it so hurriedly that it would break her nose, or split her lip. He could just make her clean it up herself, but he'd rather avoid the stain altogether if he could.

Hence him giving her another hard wrench by her shoulders, hearing her ankles scrape across the carpet as they dragged through his basement's family room, and the whimper of pain that she gave in response to what would probably end up a burn.

Thomas very nearly rolled his eyes. If the bitch would just do as he told her, none of it would have to be this way!

"That's what you get for not picking up your feet!" he screamed, digging his fingers into her shoulder and shoving her towards the fireplace – in the direction of the room he'd spent so much time planning and working on, just for her. "Get inside!"

She practically flew over there then, Thomas thought to himself with a slight hint of amusement. It reminded him of old, slapstick comedy movies where people would run into walls or crash through doors all the time, only she ended up right in front of the door that led through to the door to her room.

It was, he supposed, lucky that she didn't hit her head on the mantlepiece. Again, it prevented blood stains on his pristine carpet, and it kept her face pretty.

The last thing he'd be able to stand having around the place was a damaged female that was ugly to look at. It would ruin everything!

But this one...once she'd learned her place and knew better, she was going to be perfect. Inside and out. It wasn't going out of his way to intervene if she needed a little bit of correcting on the way, though.

And he was enjoying himself as he was doing it, for the most part. But there were certain...situations, like the one he now found himself in, that still aggravated him.

After the original high and mirth of watching the correction happen had worn off, of course. As a matter of fact, the excitement worn off, right then. He had just realised that he was going to have to pick her up from the floor again.

Even though she was perfectly capable of walking!

"God, you really are one big, stupid bitch, aren't you?" he practically growled, picking her up by her nightgown's neckline and briefly dragging her away from the fireplace.

He then pulled the hidden door open and roughly shoved Claire and the bedsheets into the small cubbyhole, so artfully hidden behind the imposing structure. He still got a rush of adrenaline and felt an immense sense of pride whenever he thought about or stopped to appreciate the result of his hard work – he'd outdone himself, considering he wasn't an architect.

He'd always been crafty and had had an almost innate talent for building things, but this hidden chamber, with its installed sink and toilet, was his masterpiece. It had taken him over a year of careful planning and another six months of hard work, but it had been worth it. He'd envisioned the cellar as his own little kingdom, within which he was to keep the woman that he wanted.

He'd keep her there until she was ready – he would turn this diamond in the rough into the most wonderful jewel the world had ever seen. He couldn't wait to parade her around and be the envy of all the men in the world! But for that to happen he needed patience… patience, and time. She, like a fragile flower, needed tending and strict discipline. As it so happened, botany was another of his many interests, and one of the basic things every self-respecting gardener should know, was that pants, when they begin to lean sideways, need correcting in order to grow properly. And Claire was in dire need of correcting, as it so happened.

He would mould her into the perfect wife, eventually, and the two of them would be happy.

With that thought in mind, he got down on all fours and crawled into the hidden chamber, right after Claire, who, much to his annoyance, had curled up in a ball against the wall closest to the entrance to her room. Instead of using her fucking brain and getting into it, like any other normal person would have done, she was wasting _his_ time by acting like a spoiled brat!

"Get moving, you whore!" he howled as he got to his feet, "I don't have all day long, bitch!"

He gave her a strong kick in the side then, to stress just how displeased he was with her.

She cried out in pain at that, but he ignored it. It was the only way she'd learn that no one was going to come running every time she had a problem of any kind. He certainly wasn't – she was there to service his needs, not the other way around. Besides, she'd practically earned it by not doing as she was told.

It seemed like he had to do _everything_ himself around the place!

He had to drop the bedsheets instead of hanging onto them that time (she'd be punished for that later, whether there was dirt on them or not), and with a groan that he knew would tell her how much she'd be in for it even more if she didn't at least start trying to make an effort (like every other person on the fucking planet), he went and opened the door himself. He slid the ladder down until he heard it fall neatly and firmly into place on the floor below, too.

"Get downstairs, you stupid slut!" he shouted, close to her face so that she knew he meant it. "If you don't pick up your fucking feet and move, I'll throw you down there!"

He would, too. She was easy to lift at this stage, and he thought that a few broken bones might teach her a lesson about behaving.

But, he didn't have to. The bitch was finally doing something right and starting to move – at a crawl which could make a ninety-year-old grandmother look fast, but it was movement, nonetheless.

It was hastened along by another loud yell from him, and soon enough he was also on the ladder, certain to be close enough behind her to kick at her and threaten to stomp on her fingers if she stopped moving.

She was smart enough not to stop. If he'd felt like paying her a compliment (something he rarely did, because the thought of a humble wife who kept demurely to herself was far more attractive than one with an ego or the idea that she could be greater than she was), he would've told her that she was smart to keep going. But that would've been it, and then he would've kept her in her place again by reminding her that he would still always be smarter.

He was lord and master here, in this place. She could use the brainpower she had to figure that out, and then learn to live by it.

She'd feel much happier, once it had sunk in. The corrections wouldn't have to happen so often.

But for now, they were vital.

"Get away from the ladder," he snarled, shoving her away in the direction of the table. He didn't care if she crashed into it or not, it would be another lesson that she could learn – moving away as quickly as possible. "Fucking move!"

At last, she was finally back where she needed to be. Until the next time came, obviously. He could get back upstairs and get on with everything else he had to do.

Everything that she'd made him late for!

"You'd better not try anything like that again, bitch," he warned her. "You'll pay for every second that you made me waste, dragging your stupid, disgusting ass back down here!"

She really would pay for it. And if she did it again, then the corrections would be worse the next time. It would go on, until she learned what was right and what was wrong.

He marched over to her to begin the first of this round of corrections. She was backed against the table and still moving like a snail, so she didn't duck out of the way in time, like she might have tried before.

His hand closed around her throat as soon as he was close enough. It wasn't tight enough to cut off all her air, but enough so that she'd gasp and plead for it after a short while.

"Are you going to waste my time again?" he asked.

Already missing her oxygen and sounding like she wasn't breathing right, she shook her head in return. She seemed desperate – her eyes were wide and he could tell that her body was struggling to do anything it could to get more air in...

She'd get more, in good time. But she hadn't yet given a verbal answer, like he was looking for. When she had, then he'd think of letting her breathe.

He'd even give her a clue as to what she had to do to get back her denied privilege.

He shook her frail body, tightening his grip on her neck, "Speak when you're spoken to, bitch!"

She let out a louder choking noise, through which she eventually spluttered an answer, "I…won't...waste…your…time…again!"

He considered her for a few seconds – ten or so at the most – before he agreed to believe that she meant it and released her, allowing her back the oxygen only he got to decide that she deserved.

"You'd better not," he spat, turning away from her and heading back up the ladder. He simply didn't care that she'd collapsed to her knees and was coughing loudly – she was being overdramatic, that was all. He hadn't choked her _that hard_.

Once at the top, he grabbed the bedsheets and threw them down to her.

"You're just as filthy as these, so you might as well have them," he said. "I'm done with you for now. See you tomorrow."

He then pulled the ladder back up and slammed the door shut behind him.

It banged satisfyingly behind him, making him smile at the auditory reminder of his power over her. Usually, after taking her, he felt somewhat…unhinged. Like he'd momentarily lost the reins of power in the frenzy of driving into her over and over again.

It wasn't a feeling he particularly liked, and as such he needed to keep some distance between him and his bitch for a little while. It helped him go back to a level state of mind, so he could deal with her accordingly. Let the red mist dissolve, so to speak.

What he needed was a nice cup of chamomile tea and one of those store-bought chocolate chip muffin he kept in the pantry for emergencies. Being well into middle age, he made an effort to keep himself fit by eating clean and working out in his private gym. And his effort certainly had paid off – his doctor had recently told him he had the health of someone half his age! Again, his obsession with his health had initially stemmed from his desire to be man enough for Claire, and he'd stuck to his new clean habits once he'd come to his senses and realised that it was Claire who had to be shaped into a worthy wife for himself.

He felt better than he'd felt in years, and as such he had no desire to put a stop to his healthy lifestyle.

He had a light spring in his step as he went back upstairs, and he took in a breath of the fresh, clean air as he headed along the corridor to the kitchen. He prided himself on the fact that he kept his place so clean, too - it felt like it was clearing for his lungs, and it only added to him feeling in peak condition.

He had money, looks, good health...yes, he truly was perfect. And he'd soon have a wife that matched.

He soon arrived at his destination and got the water boiling for his tea, before opening the box of muffins. He couldn't wait until the day he didn't have to get up for it, though - Claire would bring him both, made just the way he liked them (they wouldn't have store-bought once she'd become a housewife who knew how to bake), and then she'd kneel at his feet silently until he needed something else from her.

That was a good picture. The right picture. The picture of a man ruling his castle, with a subservient woman attending to his every need. It was what he wanted, and it was what he deserved.

And no real man would disagree with him on any of that.

But, until Claire had learned to know her place, he was willing to put up with doing it all by himself. He made a good cup, and the store's muffins were acceptable quality.

He took his cup in one hand and a plate with a muffin in the other, and went to seat himself in the living room.

When the bitch was ready, he'd have her practically diving to put a coaster under his cup, but for the time being, there was already one in place for him on the coffee table. He placed his drink down to cool to the right temperature, and carefully unpeeled the paper casing on his muffin. He was careful not to let a single crumb drop on the chair or the floor, and he lifted it to his mouth to take a bite...

Only for a loud knock at the door to interrupt him just before it touched his lips.

Who the hell could that be? He never had guests or visitors, unless his parents or siblings came over, and they always called first...

There was another annoyingly loud knock, and Thomas sighed in frustration before settling his muffin carefully down on the table and going to answer it.

He'd just have to go back to it in a moment, when he'd sent whoever was at the door away.

He got to the front door and opened it, to be met by the sight of a tall, grey-haired woman with a stern expression.

Detective...Lane. He remembered her from the first time around; it seemed that she was living up to her threat of returning.

"Mr Jones," she said curtly.

Thomas almost spat at her by way of reply. Actually, had they been alone, without an army of brainless, steroid-filled oafs, he would have beaten the crap out of her. That's what women who contradicted him (or any man, for that matter) deserved. A good thrashing.

But, as it was, she had a gun. And a badge. He had to tread with care or he may very well end up locked up in a cell, and his secret would be discovered. He couldn't allow these idiots to interrupt his wife's formative process! Not when he was so close to having the woman he deserved.

"Detective Lane," he said politely, and glanced at his wristwatch – he never took it off, not even to sleep, "To what do I owe this pleasure? It's a rather unusual time to come knocking at someone's door."

"Well, perhaps, but as it is, this is also an… _abnormal_ time to be awake, Mr Jones," replied the detective, "But as it so happens, I have a search warrant to check your home, Mr Jones."

As she spoke, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the court's writ, which she then proceeded to hand over to a clearly shocked Thomas Jones.

"And I promise you, we'll tear it apart, if we need to," she added, smiling brightly.

Thomas felt the rage returning at her words and he openly started to glare at the warrant. The familiar heat descending over him was always a warning sign that it was about to start, but he had to keep it – mostly – under control that time.

He couldn't simply tear up the paper that the bitch from New York's finest had given him, no matter how much he wanted to. It would...raise questions, at best.

At worst, it would most definitely get him arrested, and then the whole thing would be ruined!

He wasn't going to let that happen. He'd done so much hard work to get this far, he wasn't about to let it all be taken away again by some cow with a badge!

Legally, she had to come in. He (annoyingly) couldn't stop that. But that didn't mean that he had to be particularly polite or civil about it. All bets for that would be off, as soon as she stepped through his door.

"Oh, I'm sure you will," he replied, nearly through his teeth. "You cops always find an excuse."

"Well, clearly it was good enough an excuse for the judge," replied the detective, "Now, move aside and let us through."

Lane didn't wait for his reply – she simply pushed past him and gestured for her men to swarm into Thomas' home. There was a lot of work to do, and they simply couldn't waste time – not when Miss Babcock's life depended on them finding her before it was too late.

"Alright everybody, divide by teams!" ordered Lane, "I will be overseeing your work!"

A collective "Yes ma'am!" came from the rest of the officers as they spread out, carrying with them all sort of artefacts and contraptions to fastidiously rake his entire home. They were completely oblivious to (or perhaps they simply didn't care) the fact that their dirty boots and countless cases and equipment were scratching his expensive hardwood flooring!

What was wrong with these animals?!

They simply didn't have any sense of decency! It would take him forever to get the grooves they were digging into his floors repaired, and the dirt would have to be cleaned as soon as they were gone otherwise it would stain permanently!

If he didn't know that for sure, he'd leave it to teach Claire how a proper wife would do it. But he didn't want to take that risk – he'd just have to find some other way to do that.

He'd probably drop some old food or something in her room. Something that would make a huge mess that she'd have to clean up.

And she would clean it up, if she knew what was good for her.

The thought eased him, but it wasn't enough to dispel his ire as the Neanderthals in uniform continued to tramp their way through his home and pick their way not-so-delicately through his things.

If he didn't also think it would attract the wrong kind of attention from them, Thomas thought he could scream.

Especially when one of them made their way into his kitchen. His _pristine_ kitchen...

There was a sense of helplessness to the whole situation – usually, when it came to power dynamics, he was the one on top. He was the one that dictated what could and couldn't be done, but presently he was stuck in a rather uncomfortable position. In a _submissive_ position.

And the detective's smug smile was only making it worse. She hadn't left with her men, and she was sticking him with an infuriatingly arrogant look. This was a woman who clearly had to be put in her place, and had they been on their own, he would have beaten the crap out of her, until she understood she was to be demure and obedient.

"Anything you'd like to say, Mr Jones?" she said, clasping her hands together, "Make our job easier, perhaps?"

Thomas narrowed his eyes at Lane – if there was something he detested in a woman, it was for them to be condescending or contemptuous. His hand was itching to fly out and make an impact against her cheek, but he forced himself to stay calm.

She was after that – she wanted to rile him up. He wouldn't cave. He _couldn't_ cave. Otherwise she'd have won.

"Fuck you," he said instead, "You'll find nothing."

Lane's nostril's flared and her eyes shone dangerously – just like Thomas, Lane was aching to smash the bastard's face in until he confessed to where he was keeping Miss Babcock, but they both had to keep up some semblance of civility. The cat wasn't out of the bag. Not yet.

"We'll see about that," replied Lane threateningly.

With that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room, towards…the basement's entrance?!

She couldn't go down there. What if she checked the fireplace?! She'd find the entrance to Claire's room in no time if she took that chance, and it would all be over!

He had to do something. Something that would throw her off the scent – he couldn't stop the bitch from going down there because he'd never stop that squad of brainless oafs from holding him down whilst their oh-so noble leader checked every square inch of the place!

But he could direct her attention where he wanted it to go.

So, he hurried after her, careful not to cause the same damage to his own place that his uninvited houseguests had, intending to just catch up and take over.

"Detective Lane! Wait!"

The bitch opened the door to the basement and started down the stairs without apparently hearing him. She probably did, Thomas thought; she was just pretending not to.

Not that it mattered. The top of the stairs gave him the perfect vantage point – he could spot the perfect place to direct Lane's attention from there.

And he thought he'd just found the perfect one.

He didn't stop Lane from descending the stairs, taking in everything as she went. He knew she had to look at everything at least once.

Not too closely, but just enough that she felt no need for a second visit.

Most of the place looked like a standard home entertainment room - like a den that he could come into and relax whenever he wanted. And, when Claire was closer to being perfect and could actually behave herself, then she'd be allowed to sit out there with him.

She wouldn't be allowed to touch anything unless she had to clean it, bring it to him, or if it was something he wanted her to do for him, but still. That was the way things would be.

As long as Lane didn't mess it all up by sniffing around in the wrong place, instead of where he had just decided that she should go instead.

All she had to do was get near it. She was heading in the right direction as it was, and in his head he was practicing his panicked voice that would definitely throw her off.

It had worked with his parents, whenever he'd wanted them to be on his side for anything. He knew he still had the knack for it, even if he hadn't had much use for it in between then and now.

He got to the basement just as Lane was sliding a gloved finger over the fireplace's mantelpiece. He had to lure her away from there, but do so in a way that didn't raise any suspicions. This detective bitch was far too close to the mark, and he was not going to allow all his hard work to go to waste just because one entitled whore didn't know to keep her big nose out from other people's business.

"Not one speck of dust," commented Lane, rubbing her thumb and index finger together. "Your house is impeccable, Mr Jones, isn't it?"

Thomas didn't answer, he knew he had the right to remain silent. Deep inside, he was frothing with indignation – these people had no right to be in his home, going over his things, and looking for a bitch that was his and his alone. But he was smarter than they were, he was a thousand steps ahead of them, and he would outsmart them, even with all their fancy equipment.

And the first stage of his diversion had already begun.

"Hiding something, perhaps?" Lane insisted, keeping an eagle eye on him – she'd noticed he was slowly inching closer to a locked door just behind the pool table.

The door he intended her to look at, getting her away from the area that could potentially lead him right into the path of a bunch of thugs who'd insist that somehow he was the one in the wrong. He was never the one in the wrong - he was the god among mortals, finally earning his place, and that kind of man was never wrong about anything!

Nobody ever got the better of him, and nobody ever would, either. Any talk of jail from them, and he'd find something to turn that away.

It wasn't going to happen. And even thought that all relied on how good Lane truly was, doing the investigation stuff, Thomas had to agree that he was smarter, still.

She must have spotted the door from his rather sudden, quick movements of his eyes and decided it was worth investigating.

He was going to play that up for everything that it was worth.

"I...try to keep it that way," he replied, trying to sound nervous. "I have...very specific notions about hygiene, cleanliness, keeping things neat..."

Not that he thought Lane was listening at that point. She'd practically taken off in a run towards the door he'd picked out for this!

"Detective Lane, no!" he cried out as she went past.

He was just adding a little bit of panic to his tone, to hammer home a false sense of being right in her. Thomas knew that she wasn't going to find a thing when she flung open the door...

To the dirty, old, unused room that might've been for a washing machine and dryer at one time but now served as the place that Thomas' clutter went to die. There were some boxes of things scattered about the floor, but most if the room was occupied by dust and cobwebs.

A contrast to how he liked his space? Absolutely. But it was more useful like this right at that moment.

And it was far funnier, seeing the confused and angry look on the bitch's face, than any other use that little room could have.

He let his amusement show, when he smirked as she looked at him.

"I did try to tell you," he told her, mockingly innocent. "I absolutely _hate_ seeing it so dirty, it's an embarrassment for people to see..."

The look of absolute ire on the detective's face that immediately followed his words, was absolutely _priceless_. So was the moment when she slammed the door shut in a pathetic attempt at trying to either appear threatening (that was a laugh!) or vent her frustration at his clever scheme.

He'd clearly won this round, hadn't he? Again, he'd shown his superiori–

He never got to finish his sentence. He was taken by surprise when Lane slammed him against the wall.

"What the Hell are you playing at, Jones?!" snapped Lane, her face mere inches away from Thomas'. "Do you think bullshitting me is going to get you anywhere?! I know you have her! And I promise you, when I find that girl, I'll make you pay for every miserable second you kept her away from her family and friends."

Thomas had been threatened before – his biological dad had made a hobby out of it – but never in his life had he been threatened by a woman. On the few times he'd had arguments and minor fights with female girlfriends, he'd never felt threatened or like he'd have to watch his back. But now… now it was different.

He wasn't afraid of her, not in the least, but there was a real threat in her. One wrong move – on little slip, and everything would be over. They'd take Claire away and he'd be set to jail. It infuriated him. This bitch was getting to big for her boots, and he was not going to let her try and intimidate him. Not in _his house._

"Those are big words, for such a pathetic little slut," he spat, pushing her away (but taking care not to hurt her, in spite of himself – he didn't want to be taken into custody, even if the bitch deserved a thrashing), "You have nothing on me!"

Lane scoffed, "Oh, but I do! Not only did someone see Miss Babcock getting into your car, but I also know that you have a motive – we were told about the rejection, Jones. You know, that time you invited her out and she turned you down? Must have been _pretty_ humiliating, huh?"

Lane's words were like a slap, and they pulled a very unpleasant memory to the forefront of his thoughts. The day his... _failure_...had happened.

He'd been so nervous, but he'd imagined that would lend a helping hand to the air of a kind, quiet man with a good sense of humour, who loved to have fun. And yet she'd still laughed in his face anyway. Gone off anyway, and he'd been forced to do all of this for her just to get her where she belonged.

And...he hadn't been alone in his humiliation...

That butler. The one that worked for Mr Sheffield...he'd been watching from the shadows like an assassin, waiting to strike at the perfect moment.

And he had, with one devastating quip.

" _You know, I've seen some of the specimens she's dated in her time. How bad do you have to be that_ _ **you**_ _don't make the cut?"_

That stung Thomas, right up until the present moment. He didn't have to make any "cut"! It wasn't _him_ who needed to change, it was her! _She_ was the imperfect one who didn't deserve him, and–

And...wait a minute. Lane had said that they knew she'd shot him down...

The butler. They'd talked to the butler! He'd been the only person there to watch - really watch - and see what was going on!

Of course they'd talked to that bastard! He'd seen him around so much, he thought the guy might be a threat to Claire's affections! Not that that British slob had anything on him whatsoever...

Claire would pay for his mistake in talking to Lane later. But for now, he had to get this other slut and her gang of ogres out of his house.

He looked her dead in the eyes, "Good luck proving any of it."

In an almost defying move, Thomas plopped himself down on his enormous sofa, and without even looking at the detective (lest she think he cared about her presence), she reached for the remote and switched his sixty-five inches television on.

He wasn't in the mood for watching anything, really, but he wouldn't give this detective slut the satisfaction of knowing he was feeling the threat of police closing in around him. He still trusted his capacity to outsmart them all, but at the moment he just wanted to save face.

Save his pride.

It would be a long night, and he might as well be comfortable while the worst happened. Not to mention that his position on the sofa gave him a perfect view of the entrance to his hidden treasure. Should any of those brainless oafs get too close to the entrance, he'd see about distracting them. Somehow…

But Lane clearly wasn't done with him – she put herself in between him and the TV, steely eyes fixed on him. She leaned down, her face again only inches away from his, and pointed a warning finger at him.

"You'll be rotting in jail soon enough," she very nearly whispered, "That, I promise."

When he offered her no response (why should he waste his time when it was clear that the bitch needed a man around her twenty four hours a day to correct that attitude?), she huffed in disgust and went to check the rest of the room.

Thomas very nearly visibly stiffened when she did check the fireplace...

But the blind cow found nothing, and he held his tongue when he wanted to laugh out loud at that. For all her bragging and thrashing around like a wild animal, she was worse than useless - like a declawed, defanged bear pacing mindlessly in a cage!

At least, that was the impression she gave off for the rest of the search. All over the house, she was restless and frustrated, and the worse it got, the better Thomas felt.

And he had never felt as good about it as when he finally got to slam the door on them, knowing that they'd had their chance - Lane had had her chance - and found nothing.

Just like he'd said, he'd outsmarted them all.

But since that was over and done with now, Thomas thought it was time to go pay Claire a correctional visit.

She had to pay for her rejection all over again, and she'd get some extra for the butler butting in where he had no business.

* * *

All she'd wanted to do was disappear. But that obviously wasn't going to happen – it hadn't happened before, and it most likely wouldn't happen the next time, either – so she did the next best thing she could, which was wrapping up in the warm bedlinen she'd been provided with and gone to sleep.

Her mattress in the cell felt like a safe place, after Thomas had...used her. He never went near it, probably thinking it filthy, and she'd found that sleep was as close as she ever got to blocking out the pain she felt, inside and out.

Rest kept her mind alert, too. It kept her sharp if she had to react, and preserved what little health she had left.

It was the only good feeling she had left to her, drifting off to somewhere else...

Until she was awoken again by furious shouting that started her awake and her cell door slamming.

She snapped upright, bleary-eyed, "Huh...?"

Her dazed confusion was immediately met by a sharp slap across the face which sent her flying back onto the mattress, and soon Thomas' full, frightening weight was on her again, slapping and pounding and beating her with his fists wherever he saw fit.

C.C. screamed, trying to beg him to stop and hold her hands up in both defence and surrender at the same time, but he wasn't listening.

He didn't ever want to listen. Was it happening again?! Oh God, had he decided once tonight wasn't enough and had come back for more?!

As the attack progressed, it became evident that wasn't the case. He wasn't trying to hike up her nightgown, nor was he slipping any part of his slimy anatomy into her – no, he was caught in a violent frenzy. His goal, it seemed, was hurting her. He was subjecting her to what he'd dubbed "correction", which was his sick, twisted take on what could only be described as brutal beating.

Still, even now, during what was probably the worst beating she'd ever been given, he was clearly taking care not to punch her in the face. He'd always been fastidious about not hurting her facial features, especially her nose or mouth. It didn't come from any kind of worry or affection for her – it was, as always, something he did to ensure his desires were satisfied. And as he'd said before, the last thing he wanted or needed, was an ugly bitch to look at.

He would slap or choke, but never punch her face.

What her terrified mind simply couldn't grasp, however, was the reason behind the beating. Usually, after using her, he remained in a good mood for maybe a day or two. He wasn't kind, by any means – it was more like his cruelty was kept at bay for a little while, giving her a brief respite. Had his temper flared already? After all, she'd picked up on his displeasure at her not having moved fast enough for his liking when he'd returned her to the cellar after the… _event._ It didn't really seem likely. He'd "corrected" her before, hadn't he? Hell, he'd choked her for so long that she'd feared she'd pass out!

So, if he'd corrected her before, why was he hitting her now? What could she possibly have done to incur his wrath?!

"You. Fucking. Slut!" he screamed, each word punctuated by a swift punch to her stomach, "You. Brought. The. Fucking. Cops. Into. My. Fucking. House!"

C.C. cried out in pain – one of her ribs had just broken, she could tell. But through the pain, her mind managed to pick up on what he'd said.

And what he'd just said seemed too good to be true.

Yet, she'd heard the words coming out of his mouth – he'd said that the cops had been in the house.

There had been actual cops in the house!

They… they were looking for her! There was someone out there looking for her! And even… even if they had missed where she was being held, even if she was still trapped in Hell, she had the reassurance that the police suspected Thomas – they suspected him enough to have come to search his hous–

The thought was interrupted by Thomas' fist impacting against her chest again and the searing pain of yet another rib being broken; C.C. couldn't help the tears cascading down her cheeks.

"Don't cry, you whore!" Thomas screamed in her face, slapping her, "You brought this on yourself – you and that motherfucking butler! He should have kept his goddamn mouth shut!"

C.C. gasped in a breath, not even thinking about the pain of Thomas' continued beatings (punches and slaps, kicks aimed at her legs and hips), or his hurled abuse.

 _The butler._ That could only mean one person...

Niles. Actual, real-world Niles. It sounded like he must have said something to the police - something that gave them enough reason to search Thomas' house! That was why the bastard had just done this...

Niles...he had to have cared, didn't he? He wouldn't have bothered helping with the investigation if he didn't!

He was out there, right that moment, wondering where she was and if she was alright...

And C.C. was trapped in there, not alright but not listening as Thomas continued hurling abuse at her, declaring that her meals were now forfeit until further notice. Her mind was elsewhere – wondering what the butler was doing, and how he was feeling...

If only she could talk to him for real, just for a few minutes...! It would be the best few minutes of her whole life, just to get to see him and to tell him that she was happy he was looking for her...

She was so busy thinking this, all the while trying not to cry, that she didn't really notice when, eventually, an exhausted Thomas retreated, spat on the floor next to her, and went back up the ladder, slamming the trap door shut behind him.

In the quiet and the dark once more, she lay on her mattress, battered and bruised worse than ever. She would have tried to turn on her bed, maybe try and get more comfortable but as it was she hurt too much to do anything else but lie there, taking in raggedy breaths and letting the tears fall.

But, in spite of the numbing pain she was in, she now had a new sense of hope in her heart. The police were out there and they were onto Thomas...

And the person who'd once been the least likely to offer any help, could now be the last person who'd give up on finding her.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter 12**_

" _Frustration"_

The light coming through the gap in the curtains was just enough to warm Stewart's face as he slowly woke. He reached up and wiped at his eye, stifling a yawn and letting the palm of his hand ease the discomfort that the brightness caused.

It took mere seconds for it to hit him all over again – the time it took for him to let his hand fall back to the bed, in fact – the daily waking realisation that his girl wasn't safe and sound in her own bed, just waking up to begin her day...

The dawning realisation might've come daily, but it was just as crushing each time. Maybe even more so, the longer it took and the more days passed with nothing appearing to change.

It made him want to turn on his side and just bury his face in B.B.'s shoulder, sobbing until it was all over.

But he knew he definitely couldn't do that – out of the two of them, he had to be the strong one. She might have been a little better than when Noel had first told him that she wasn't coping (she'd been drinking then, unable to sleep and taking pills to try and force it), but she was still frail with the mournful worry.

Moving back in with her, helping her with everything that she needed, the rekindling of their relationship and eventually falling back in love (not that he'd really ever been out of it), had come from their joint pain. Their need to know where their daughter was, and their heartbreak at not being able to rescue her from whatever horrors were being committed, left them both feeling both helpless and more connected than ever.

Everything else had eventually fallen into place naturally, and that had included returning to sharing a bed for, pleasure and comfort as well as sleep.

He was never anything but gentle and loving with her then. It wasn't like she could tolerate a faster pace than the one they usually followed, anyway. She'd lost a significant amount of weight in a short amount of time, which had left her painfully weak. He remembered he'd made her get on the scale when he'd first moved in and seen the extent of the damage – a woman of her height absolutely should not only weigh 109 pounds and she definitely shouldn't have dropped over forty pounds in only two months!

He'd made her eat then, and ever since he'd continued to ensure she was getting at least three full meals a day, and he didn't let up until he was sure that it was going to stay where it was. He also made sure that she got the eight hours of sleep needed to keep a person healthy. And he never took anything they did in the bedroom too fast.

He didn't want to exhaust her any further than her own devastation was already doing.

He just wanted to hold her in his arms and have her hold him in return. He thought that they might be able to keep each other from becoming even more broken if they held on tight enough.

Part of him wanted to just keep them both there forever, and letting the awful world that had taken their daughter with no warning and no guarantees that it would give her back pass them both by.

But he knew he had to do something that day. And it didn't take his waking mind long to realise that that something was a meeting with Detective Lane. She wanted to talk about what they'd found when searching that bastard's house.

Sighing heavily, he reached over and slapped off the alarm before it could go off by itself. He didn't know why he bothered setting it anymore – he always woke up before it went off now, and even before all it did was force him out of respite into the cold light of day and a reality he didn't always want to face.

Though, even if he didn't want to face it, he did have to obey some of it, some of the time. Specifically when it came to meals.

After all, if he couldn't bring himself to eat, then why should B.B. bother trying? Not eating was the last message he wanted to send!

He rolled back over towards where she was still sleeping, curling an arm over her body and holding her close, breathing in the scent of her perfume (she wore it so often, she smelled of it even without putting any fresh on) just before he began planting soft kisses in her hair and on her cheek to wake her up.

"Morning," he whispered against her skin, waiting for her to visibly stir before he said any more. "I'm just going to make us some breakfast..."

B.B. blinked her eyes open slowly, feeling her share of the hurt coming over her as she did. It was almost overwhelming, and she nearly told Stewart that she didn't want to eat anything at all – that she didn't care if she ever ate anything again – but she refrained from doing so.

She knew that that wasn't possible if she wanted the chance of seeing their girl again. And Stewart would never allow her to go without – he'd sit long after he'd finished his own breakfast, waiting for her to start, and he wouldn't go anywhere until she'd finished her last bite.

He was firm, and he was kind. That was what she'd realised she'd always loved most about him, from the time they'd moved into the same house again and had naturally come back together.

She rolled over towards him, letting her leg slip over his hip and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. She wanted him close right then, while the pain still felt like it could swallow her up.

"Anything in particular that you want me to make?" he murmured, hugging her a little tighter around her own middle.

She shook her head no as she nuzzled his neck, "Anything's fine," she said, voice still heavy with sleep. "But I'd like some coffee to drink, too."

Stewart hummed in agreement – he'd known what she was going to ask for, even before she'd said so. It was always the same, she would never ask for a specific kind of food (she was usually satisfied with whatever he made for her), but she'd religiously ask for her daily cup of coffee. It was her daily boost to properly start her morning.

When he'd first moved in with her, she'd drink around twenty-five cups of coffee a day, five of them during the morning. Sleep-deprivation and near-constant worry had robbed her of most of her energy, something she'd tried to compensate by using an array of stimulating substances, like coffee or energy drinks. She'd made it a habit of running on borrowed energy and getting past the point of exhaustion, something he'd nipped from the bud the moment they went back to living together.

She'd cut down her coffee consumption (nowadays being around nine cups a day, which was an acceptable number for the time being), she no longer drank energy drinks and she certainly didn't take sleeping pills anymore. She still smoked like a chimney and needed her daily fix of caffeine, but she was making progress.

Baby steps, that's all it took. And until their girl was found, they'd have to take it one step at a time and lean on one another for support.

"Black with no sugar, correct?" he said, smiling down at her.

That time, her hair tickled his skin as she nodded. Stewart let the edges of his mouth turn upwards even more when that happened - he knew he'd never get the way she took her coffee wrong. It was one of the little things that helped to keep them in a routine.

It was also one of the little ways that Stewart let B.B. know he cared. She needed the reassurance, and little moments of comfort without necessarily having to say anything - favourite meals and drinks were a good way to do that, Stewart found. So, he made every effort to give her exactly what she liked and wanted.

"Alright," he kissed her on the forehead once more and hugged her again before letting go to slip out of bed. "I'll be back in a minute. You keep yourself comfortable."

B.B. somewhat reluctantly let go, and before he got too far away, Stewart tucked her back up under the covers. He then threw on his robe, before heading out of the room to go to the kitchen.

It still felt a little bit alien, wandering out of his and B.B.'s old bedroom and going along the familiar upstairs corridors of the family home. This, after all, was a place he'd never thought he'd see again, back when he and B.B. had divorced.

He'd relinquished the house so that the kids didn't have to move unless they were coming to visit him. Those infrequent – few, he admitted to himself shamefully – times had been some of the happiest he'd had.

But they were barely in focus, compared to memories of the whole family together. Compared to the times when he knew that C.C. was okay, and still asleep in her room...

It hurt to even look at the door to her old room now. To think that, if he looked in, he wouldn't see her curled up underneath her covers, clutching a teddy bear or a toy horse.

He'd seen her like that so many times, that the thought that he might never see her again in any capacity was like being punched straight in the chest. It hurt like hell, it knocked him sideways, and he didn't know if the same would be repeated the next day or the day after that...

This was something no one could have ever prepared him for. Something he would have never even considered could happen to his family. Kidnapping, murder, fatal accidents – they all happened to other people. Other terribly unlucky people, but not them. They were supposed to hear about them on the TV, feel sorry for the victims and ultimately move on with their lives.

However, life had given him a wake-up call – he was just as vulnerable as anyone else, and so were his wife and children. It had been the luck of the draw that C.C. had been the one to be taken by some heartless bastard, and now it fell on him and B.B. to help bring their baby girl back home.

Stewart felt himself gravitating towards C.C.'s old room, almost as if a siren were calling him. His hand was soon on the doorknob, and with a gentle twist and push, the door was open.

The room, much to Stewart's surprise, had been unchanged since his youngest girl had left for college.

It surprised him so much because he was sure that B.B. would want to redecorate as soon as she'd had the excuse that no one was living in the room anymore and the walls were starting to look a bit drab.

Well, maybe that was an unfair statement to make. B.B. back then would've been eager to redecorate. B.B. in the here and now wanted nothing more than for their daughter to come back. She didn't care if the room ever moved on from that period of history, and that would go double if C.C. could somehow live inside it forever.

He'd give anything for her to have just been in there, hiding away from a stressful world. He'd have asked her if she wanted coffee as well, and made her a plate of breakfast because he could always tell when she'd been working too hard and not feeding herself.

She was so like her mother...

He could imagine her there even younger, too. Back in the time that he would happily trade his entire fortune to go back and start over from...

A fifteen-year-old version of his daughter grinned at him from her desk, before returning to flicking through a notebook that he knew always went back in the top left-hand drawer. Not that he ever went in and read it...

The pain in his chest was nearly flooring, and his eyes were wet at this stage.

This wasn't real. None of it could ever be real. His little girl was grown, and she was gone from them, and not knowing if they were ever going to get her back was killing him.

Staying in that room was killing him, too - suffocating the life right out of him as he let himself be crushed, wishing for the past and for things that could never happen. It wasn't right, staying there any longer.

He had to leave. He couldn't stand there until it all faded away and he went with it, no matter how much he wanted to.

C.C. was still out there. She still needed them to be at their healthiest and to carry on the search. That was the only way that they were going to get her back - hard work and perseverance. Standing around, wishing that things were different didn't change a thing.

So, blinking hard enough for the image of fifteen-year-old C.C. and his tears to dissolve into one, he turned on his heel and walked back out.

He took his time while preparing breakfast — he didn't want B.B. realising he'd been crying. The last thing she and their missing girl needed, was for him to be weak.

Years of bachelorhood had taught him a thing or two about cooking for himself, so he prepared eggs on toast with some bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice for him and his wife. He, of course, remembered to prepare his wife's coffee and, given the nature of the meeting he and B.B. would be having in a few hours, he prepared one for himself, too.

His, he spiked (not that he would ever admit so to B.B.).

He wasn't a big fan of alcohol, but he had to admit sometimes it could give him that tiny little bit of bravery that his sober self simply didn't have.

It was a kick he was going to need when Lane discussed next options or moves with him. The edge would keep him focused, and it just might do enough to lead to something significant in the near future.

And he would do anything he could to help. Even if it involved going that little extra mile, and doing things he regularly wouldn't that would constitute a healthy method of coping with the fact that she wasn't there anymore.

It made up for nothing, and yet it felt like it could make up for everything if in a very specific way. To the outside world, it healed the cracks in their front.

But it wasn't healing the crack in their lives. The crack that he was busy filling was only just letting him keep their heads above water. He didn't know for how much longer he'd be able to keep afloat, but he had to try – for B.B., for his children and for himself.

He'd failed them once by being an absent father, but this time he'd make damn sure everyone knew his family was his priority. It was a time to huddle together, bunker down and bear the harsh reality that seemed to be whipping at their faces with untamed fury. He sometimes wished it wasn't so much biting the proverbial bullet but rather taking a more proactive stance. It was so incredibly frustrating, feeling like he was useless and essentially of no help in the investigation, but as Lane had told him time and time again, this was way out of their depth.

Power, influence, money – it all fell flat before the sadism and cruelty of a madman. It simply didn't matter whether he was the richest man in the world or lived in squalor – tragedy didn't discriminate.

This was the rotten hand life had dealt him, and whether he liked it or not, whether he could cope with the knowledge that his girl was probably being hurt at the moment or not, he had to deal with it. He had to pull through.

Each day was a string of baby steps – a continuum of attempts at somehow trying to live with the weight of worry and uncertainty on their shoulders; it was an ever-present threat that hung over their heads, dangling unsteadily and teasing with coming crashing down and squashing them flat. It was perverse – having to live feeling like, at any given moment, the little that was left of his life would come crashing down around him. It meant no respite, no moment of quiet peace…

There was only pain.

Pain, and loss.

But even though that was all there was or seemed to be, he wasn't intending on giving up or giving in. He'd managed to not give in with B.B., and he wasn't intending on stopping there.

If he was going to keep everybody afloat, he couldn't afford to stop.

It seemed almost like a universal irony; the fact that, even as rich as he was, he couldn't afford to stop even for a moment. But no matter what the universe stacked against them all, he was determined to carry on fighting back just as hard.

And that started, as it did every day, with the small things that were needed to carry on in life. In this case, carrying his and B.B.'s breakfast tray back up to their room.

He often had flashes of anger at this point, where he would feel like throwing the whole thing against the wall in a fit of miserable rage, but he always stopped himself from doing it.

It wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't bring C.C. back to them, and it would set B.B. back if they didn't eat.

They had to keep moving carefully forward. That was how he managed to get the tray upstairs and through the bedroom door without breaking down.

"Here we are," he announced aloud, even if not cheerfully, letting B.B. know that it was time for her to sit up and have her food.

She did so quite slowly - the usual pace for somebody who had just woken up and was reluctant to make any move that would bring them closer to getting out of bed. She used to be much more sluggish when they'd first started living together again – probably from a combination of a lack of food, too much to drink the night-slash-early-morning before, and the pills still in her system...

The memory of it was still there, fresh and vivid, and Stewart hurt even more inside to think about how their daughter's disappearance was draining the life out of her. It fuelled his daily determination to make sure that they fought the pain at every turn and did everything they could to get C.C. back with them.

He wanted to be as brave and strong as he knew their girl was.

Opening up the tray's legs and setting it out in front of B.B., he took care not to let any of their breakfast get knocked or spill as he got back into bed. He wasn't going to let any of it get spoiled, and give even a hint of an excuse for B.B. to not eat.

He was going to make a show of eating, too, even if he knew he didn't feel like it either.

They made their way through their meal in silence, each lost in their own little worlds of trouble – each thinking about their lost girl, and wondering about what she was doing at the moment. Wondering if she was cold or hungry or hurt…

They were right, of course, but they had no way of knowing so.

They had no way of knowing that their girl was resting in her cell, letting a few broken ribs and a battered body heal. Neither of them could have known that her captor was taking personal and thorough care of her, lest he has to deal with a dead body rather than with a rebellious wife-in-the-making.

They had no way of knowing that, right that instant, she wished she were dead.

They had no way of knowing that reality way exceeded their worst nightmares.

And, perhaps, it was best they didn't know. Otherwise, they wouldn't have been able to function. Their breakfast would have gone uneaten, they wouldn't have had the strength to eventually get out of bed and take a shower, and they certainly wouldn't have been able to gather the strength to get dressed and leave for the police station.

Ignorance truly wasn't bliss, in this regard. But it was a whole lot better than knowing everything.

The car ride felt at least three times as long as it really was, and it was filled to the brim with silence. Neither of them had anything to talk about - nothing that the other didn't know, or wasn't feeling exactly as well - and the idea of turning on the radio brought about apathy in their minds at best, and dread at worst. Apathy at the idea of hearing other people going about their ordinary, mostly happy lives, and dread at the idea of hearing another press story about their little girl that they hadn't been consulted on and wouldn't have approved if they had.

Silence really was better than any of that. It was safer and calmer than any of that.

Not that either one of them felt very calm when they finally managed to find a parking space near to the front of the station and had to leave the car. They both knew that Lane would be waiting for them, and even though neither said a word about it, both were trembling with adrenaline at the idea of the detective having news for them.

Instead, they just took and gripped each other's hands again in a sign of mutual, steady support.

Walking into the station hadn't gotten any easier in all the months they'd been going there. They'd hoped it would, but it simply hadn't. They still felt like all eyes fell on them the moment they stepped a foot inside, and they still felt the unbearable pity that everyone felt for them.

Both Stewart and B.B. disliked being pitied, but considering their child had been taken by some psychopath, it was hard not to give people a reason to put them in that position.

That's probably why they rarely engaged with anyone, or why they kept their eyes firmly fixed on the floor. They knew the way to Lane's office by heart at this stage, and everyone at the station knew them, so it worked for everyone to just let the Babcocks quietly make their way to where they needed to be.

It was no different that day, and just like many of the other times when they'd been summoned to the detective's office, they found that both Niles and Noel were already there, sat on Lane's L-shaped sofa, and sipping on vending machine coffee as they waited for them to arrive.

Lane was there, too, and she was already on her feet, moving towards the door – she'd spotted them from inside her office, which wasn't hard since most of the walls were made of panelled glass.

As soon as she had opened the door and was close enough, she immediately held out her hand for them both to shake, "Hello Mr Babcock, Mrs Babcock. Please, come in and have a seat."

Stewart always noted that she staged her greetings very carefully, whenever she saw them. She never told them "good morning", because he guessed that she knew it could never be a good morning for them. Not until their girl came home to them, anyway.

Still, he took her proffered hand, greeted her in return, and went into the office to sit (of course allowing B.B. to go in ahead of him). They both declined offers of coffee, preferring to just get straight into it.

It was like taking a vaccine or ripping off a Band-Aid. It was something best done right in that moment, with no delays holding it back.

And as soon as Lane was sat back behind her desk, she pulled her mouth into a hard line that threatened to frown and began.

"I'm sure you're all anxious to hear about the results of the search, conducted from the warrant," she said, knowing what she was saying was true. "Unfortunately, the search turned back nothing."

That felt like another punch in the stomach to Stewart. But this one was larger than it had been before, in this seemingly never-ending series of blows that he and his family had to keep on bearing. He had hoped so badly that the search might turn out something that he'd gotten his hopes up without even realising!

It had obviously done the same for everybody else, as well. B.B. had gasped in a pained breath when Lane had spoken, starting to cry quietly as a tearful and frustrated Noel tried his best to comfort her, and Niles...

Well, Niles looked like he wanted to start throwing a few punches of his own. And the first was no doubt for the bastard who'd taken C.C. in the first place. Stewart certainly shared in on the sentiment – if he could get his hands on that piece of shit, he'd beat him so hard that he would be left an unrecognisable, bleeding mass. He'd make sure he didn't bear any resemblance to a human being when Stewart was done with him.

But, as it was, he was powerless. Again, his crude reality had knocked him for six. He, a powerful, billionaire, business tycoon, was just as helpless as the next man.

"What do you mean you found nothing?!" snapped Stewart, slamming his fist on Lane's desk, "How on Earth did this even happen?"

"We simply found no biological evidence," said Lane, keeping her voice level – she knew Stewart's anger wasn't directed at her personally, but given the situation, she was the scapegoat; an exhaust valve of sorts. She could take the abuse, she didn't mind. This was painful for the Babcocks, and emotions were running high. "You see, Mr Jones has an…obsession for cleaning, and–"

"Oh, please! What does that have to do with anything?" Niles cut in, rage coming through in his words, "You have the best bloody equipment money can buy and you are telling me you didn't find anything that can incriminate this son of a bitch?!"

"Mr Brightmore, biological evidence can be washed away," Lane explained patiently, "And considering Mr Jones is an obsessive cleaner, it makes sense for the evidence, if there was any, to no longer be there."

"But there's gotta be some there!" Stewart joined into the fray with his own argument. "It has to get deep into the carpets and rugs - the cracks in all the walls! He can't possibly clean inside those!"

Lane could only remain calm. She knew that the man was so desperate, he was clutching at literally anything which might give him hope. It was tearing him and the rest of the family (she included Mr Brightmore in that, at this stage) apart, and all she wanted to do was give them hope.

Even if that meant shattering a dream or two about what she'd just heard.

"Mr Jones' obsession with cleaning runs deeper than carpets and rugs, Mr Babcock. He is obviously highly intelligent and he is not careless when it comes to things that could incriminate him. He ties it all together neatly, so we have nothing to go on. My men and I spent eight hours at his house, and I thoroughly checked everything I found. If we had the ability to search every hairline crack in the walls of that place, then you know I would be out there again, doing it right now," she told them, doing her utmost to keep a kind of serious optimism in her voice that only really applied to situations with the same gravity as this. "But I can't do that. I can only promise you that I'm going to do everything else in my power to make sure that C.C. is brought back. My team are gonna follow Mr Jones and keep him under surveillance, and that will include going through his trash for discarded DNA evidence. He might clean deeply, but he still has to get rid of it all at the end of the day."

He didn't know what it was about it. He didn't even particularly care. But something in those words struck Niles the wrong way, and he couldn't get it out of his head that Lane didn't seem to be taking it seriously enough, or doing enough.

Following the man? Going through his garbage? The very idea that Lane thought either of those would produce more than sod all made him want to slam his fingers down on the desk!

The desk that had, so far, held nothing that could bring C.C. back to him.

"Is that it?" he asked, a hint of the anger he was feeling showing through in his words. "Following and going through his garbage? You're police officers looking for a missing person, not...not racoons looking for your next meal!"

Lane raised a carefully measured eyebrow at that. It was the first time she'd ever heard that insult. But she understood where the man's anger was coming from.

"I know that it must seem like very little to you in comparison to a search of the house, Mr Brightmore, but I can assure you that we are doing everything we can–"

Niles was out of his chair and yelling in an instant, slamming his closed fist against the wall as he got up, "You're not doing enough! Miss Babcock could be suffering even as we speak, and you're here talking about going through trash cans?!"

Noticing how uncomfortable everybody was getting (Noel was already holding his weeping mother, and Stewart had also gotten to his feet as a reaction to Niles hitting the wall), Lane also slowly and carefully rose from her seat.

"Mr Brightmore, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down–"

"I can't calm down!" he shouted back. And, in the light, it was just possible to see the beginning of tears forming in the man's eyes. "How can I calm down when it's my fault that she's gone?!"

That struck a blow to the stomachs everybody in the room, and B.B. even stopped whimpering as an uncomfortable silence fell on the room.

Niles looked around everybody gathered there, not by any means feeling calmer or more willing to talk to them all like Lane clearly wanted them all to. He'd said his piece and spoken the truth - what more did he need to do?

It wasn't like he could stay there, anyway. He didn't belong. Not amongst the family of the woman he'd sentenced to a horrible fate with his own selfish actions.

Not amongst the family of the woman he loved.

What remained of his heart splintered at the very thought of it all. He wasn't family. He was the one who'd done this to them all. He'd made them all suffer for no reason, and the guilt gnawed at him like a wild animal.

It hurt so much, he couldn't bear the looks on their faces a second longer.

He'd done this to them. It was only right that he left and let them go on without him.

But not before saying (through a cracked and broken voice) the only two words that could possibly mean anything coming from him now.

"I'm sorry..."

After that he had to turn away, feeling the tears pricking at his eyes, and marched hurriedly out of the room.

Just being out of Lane's office felt a bit more freeing, even if he knew that he'd still prefer to disappear entirely. He knew he wouldn't be missed if he did - it would be better for everybody!

He didn't know where he'd go once he'd left the station, but anywhere had to be better than being stuck surrounded by the people he'd hurt.

Or most of them, anyway.

It tore him practically in two that the one person it all mattered most about, the worse the entire situation was that he had created.

He'd give anything he could - and that included stuff which was without reason - in order to bring her back. Even if it involved taking her place and taking abuse and suffering, whilst she got to go home to her family...

He knew that was impossible though. Madmen like the one who had taken her didn't do it because they were hoping to trade them somewhere down the line!

They did it for...a number of awful reasons. And Niles had to shove the entire idea from his head before it all became too crowded in there about how everybody would be better off if he was the one who had disappeared off the street in the first place.

It had to have been what C.C.'s family were thinking, right at that moment.

It was certainly what he believed, and he knew he could manage it as soon as he got to the exit...

He made it over the line in the threshold and he carried on walking. The street passed by him swiftly and he could have almost blended back in and disappeared...

If it weren't for a voice behind him, calmly calling for him to stop.

He tried to ignore it and keep going, but the more he tried, the closer it sounded. He almost wanted to believe it was just in his mind for some reason, but that was swiftly proven impossible when a hand closed around his arm.

"Niles! Please, let's talk about this..."

Stewart. He didn't know why the man was so determined to keep him there - was it possible that grief of his daughter's disappearance was making him act on poor decisions? He couldn't possibly really have wanted the man whose fault this all was to stick around!

He and his family were in enough pain, at that moment. They didn't need him there as well, taking up room and reminding them all that if it wasn't for his stupid mistake in the first place, no one would be hurt or...well, gone.

He should have gone, really. But he had too much respect for C.C.'s father to just pull his arm free and walk away.

He closed his eyes painfully, "No, sir...there's nothing more to be said."

"There's tons more to be said! This story isn't over, pal, and you're a major part of it!"

Stewart's words forced him to open his eyes and look at him in confusion. The businessman stared back, calm and oddly defiant.

"Have a cup of coffee with me," he said. "You owe me that much, even if you really and truly want to get the hell out of here afterwards."

Niles blinked. He couldn't imagine why Stewart was making such an effort to keep him with everybody else or why he'd willingly have a cup of coffee - with him. But he'd been right when he'd said that he owed it to him. There was nothing he could possibly do or say to make it up to the Babcocks, but if Mr Babcock wanted him to have coffee with him, then Niles would do it.

He'd bite the proverbial bullet and do it, even if Niles simply didn't see what good could come out of this.

"Alright, sir," Niles sighed, "I will have coffee with you."

Niles didn't mention just how unworthy he felt of even being in the same place as Stewart, let alone his dread at actually having to sit down and have something to drink together. It wouldn't do them any good and he was certain Stewart was aware that he simply did not wish to be in his presence anymore.

"Good," said Stewart, giving a sharp nod. "Follow me, I believe there is a Starbucks a few blocks away."

With that, he gestured for Niles to follow and started making his way to the coffee shop, the butler soon following him close behind.

The walk seemed to take forever in silence, and with each step, Niles wondered about what Stewart could possibly have to say to him.

Was he simply going to tell him to take himself out of the search? That his presence wasn't doing anybody else any good and that it was better if he simply went away? Niles often felt that last part, if so - it would make everything so much easier if they could agree.

Easier, and infinitely more polite, than the angry image of Stewart he sometimes got, asking him if he hadn't done enough damage and telling him to stay the hell away from his family. Or what was left of it, no thanks to him.

That seemed a likely option. He might be even kinder on the wording, knowing Stewart. The businessman might choose to be lenient - after all, it was obvious how much Niles knew this was all his fault, and wanted to get himself out of there to spare everyone else having to be around him.

It wasn't like he was useful to them, or anything. He'd caused the trouble in the first place and now all he could do was sit there and give off useless advice that didn't even end up going anywhere!

He hated himself. For being so stupid, and for sticking around a family in crisis when he had nothing to do with them.

Even if Stewart didn't say any of that, he'd probably bring it up himself.

It was only after he'd decided that he would bring it up and get it all out there that they finally arrived at the coffee shop, Stewart holding the door open to allow him inside.

"After you."

A millionaire opening a door for him? That was a new one…

He didn't think he deserved that kind of civility from Stewart, but why argue? He'd rather get on with it so he could finally leave and leave them alone, as he should have done from the beginning.

Thankfully enough, the queue wasn't very numerous. And it wasn't long before they both had paid for (Niles having had to insist countless times on paying for his own coffee himself) and been given their beverages of choice – a tall latte for Niles and a grande caramel macchiato for Stewart. They decided against sitting at a table – too many people around to actually have a conversation – preferring to simply chat while walking. It would save Niles having to look at Stewart in the eye when he told him just how unwelcome he was.

"So," Stewart said, opening the conversation, "Are you planning on explaining what your little outburst was all about or am I gonna have to guess?"

Niles hung his head in shame. He should have known all along that he ought to be embarrassed by how he'd behaved back at the station - what kind of a supposedly grown man just ran out of there after proclaiming himself nothing but in the wrong? Even if it was true?

He really and truly couldn't get anything right. He was probably going to muck up his explanation even now, and just make Stewart even madder at him than he already was.

But it wouldn't be anywhere near as bad as if he chose to remain entirely silent.

"I...I had to go," he eventually let forth, unable to meet Stewart's eye. He had to keep his gaze firmly on the coffee because at least that couldn't glare at him. "It was all my fault that we were there in the first place! If I hadn't chosen to prank your daughter and send her storming out of my hospital room, then none of this would've happened!"

He didn't look up, but he knew from his tone that Stewart was confused by that, "Prank? What prank?"

Niles felt his stomach clench up. Stewart had had no idea about the events that led up to Miss Babcock being snatched, and now he was going to have to hear about it from the man who'd practically sent her out to be kidnapped in the first place! He was hurting the family yet again - what was the matter with him?! Couldn't he even try to control himself?!

Evidently not, because he proceeded to explain everything that had happened. Waking up. Seeing her. The pillow prank. The curtain reveal.

The scream...the storming out...

No detail was left out, and Niles felt himself shrinking as he came to his conclusion.

"If it weren't for all that, none of this would've happened," he said. "I wouldn't have hurt your family, in a way that I am not able to make up for..."

He sighed a little and dropped his eyes a little bit further back, so they were now boring on-the-verge-of wet holes into the concrete underneath his feet.

"That was why I left," he explained. "Because I'd done enough damage and I wasn't helping anybody. None of you deserve it, and I felt it was better if I just...went..."

He was still thinking that now, even though Stewart hadn't told him to get lost in any form yet.

He didn't understand what the man was waiting for, in that regard. If it had been his daughter (not that he was ever going to have a daughter), Niles wouldn't want the man to be anywhere near him! He would have told him to stay the hell away from his family and to find somebody else's doorstep to darken!

And if the man had been decent, if not good or honest (someone who was either of those wouldn't have ever considered doing what he'd done), he would have done as he'd said.

Not that any such hypothetical scenario mattered. It wasn't like Niles was ever going to have a family that he had to protect. All he left had was a pile of shattered dreams, which had been nice to hold and to think about, even if they would never have come true, either.

He was walking with the man who still had a real family, even if part of it was gone. Stewart was the protector here, and he was the not-good-not-honest and maybe not even decent interloper who had to go and find somebody else's life to ruin.

The Babcocks deserved better than to see him any time they were told something about their daughter, now knowing (and they would all know - Stewart would tell them) exactly why it was his fault she wasn't there anymore.

And Stewart had to see that. He'd understand it.

So, summoning all his courage, Niles finally forced himself to look at Stewart. He was, of course, expecting to see revulsion in his face — even hatred...

But when he finally met Stewart's eye, Niles simply didn't find a trace of any of those feelings. Instead, he found sadness. An overwhelming sadness. But at the same time, there was warmth in his eyes. Was...was that pity? Mr Babcock had no reason to feel sorry for him, given the circumstances.

Niles knew he was a miserable, unimportant bastard who'd never amount to anything, but his suffering could in no way be compared to that of Stewart's. He was pitiful, yes, but unworthy of sympathy.

"Have you really been carrying that weight since the day you reported her missing?" Stewart said, placing a comforting hand on Nile's right shoulder. "Can't you see that this was not, in any shape or form, your fault?"

...What?

He couldn't have heard him right, surely? Stewart had just said that none of it was his fault! He'd put a hand on his shoulder!

Had he not been listening when he'd told him what had happened the day Miss Babcock had gone missing?! He was the catalyst for everything and had resulted in them all ending up with nothing!

And yet, here Stewart was, treating him like a friend he didn't deserve to be, and effectively telling him to stop blaming himself.

He didn't see why he should, though. He'd carry that weight for as long as he lived - it was his albatross. His cross to bear.

But part of him was still curious as to why Stewart thought it shouldn't be.

"What do you mean, it isn't my fault?" his words came out a little incredulously - how could they not, when the fact that he was at fault was so obvious? "If I hadn't pulled that prank, then your daughter would never have left the hospital! The...the person who took her would never have had a chance to..."

Niles could not bring himself to finish that sentence. It was still too painful — it was still too horrible for him to actually say it.

Had it not been because he did not want to appear weak in front of Stewart, he would have allowed himself to weep. He would have allowed the tears he was holding to fall, one after the other. He'd have damned himself and damned the day he'd decided to play a cruel prank on her when it was clear that she'd been doing nothing but worry about him after he'd had his heart attack.

"Niles, the person who took her would have taken her anyway," Stewart said, not once moving his hand from the butler's shoulder. "This was not a crime of opportunity — this person clearly had been planning on taking her for a while. Otherwise, she would have been found already."

"What difference does it make?!" snapped Niles, angrily disposing of his practically full cup of coffee in a nearby trashcan, pulling away from Stewart in the process — he didn't think he could stand his kind touch for much longer. "I still made it easier for the bastard to take her! I provided him with the perfect opportunity to... to hurt her by making her upset! There is no way to deny the truth — I was a piece of shit to her, and no matter what I do, I can never make it up to her, or to you and Mrs Babcock."

He'd done everything wrong. And now it was too late to even try doing any better. What was the point? Nobody had any reason to forgive him, and no matter how much he wanted to make things better, it simply didn't happen!

He might as well have just given up entir-

His thoughts were swiftly interrupted by Stewart pulling him into an almost bone-crushing hug. His free hands had obviously provided the perfect opportunity, but he still hadn't seen it coming, and the butler stared, wide-eyed, at as much of the businessman as he could.

What was he doing? Shouldn't he be punching him in the face, or at least turning on his heel and walking away? Leaving the man who'd hurt his family to stew in his own juices? That was the kind of justice most people wanted, wasn't it?

He'd obviously seen and felt Niles' reluctance to relax into the hug, so Stewart spoke up and explained.

"The joke might've been in poor taste, but that doesn't mean that you have to feel guilty. Not even for one second," the businessman said firmly. "You might think that you're not making a difference, but you've dedicated every second to finding C.C. since she's been gone. And, whatever the circumstances, we are grateful for that. We're thankful for it, and that outweighs anything that you feel you might've done."

Thank...thankful? The Babcocks were actually grateful that he was there, spending every hour of the day doing all he could to look for the woman he'd sent away?

It still didn't seem fully right to him. But he wasn't going to argue with Stewart - not when the man had been far kinder to him than he'd deserved, simply by not telling him to go when he'd had his first chance.

"It's the least I could do," said the butler as Stewart finally pulled away. "Anybody in my position would have done what I did — it's nothing special, sir."

"On the contrary, son," replied Stewart, again looking at Niles with...well...he supposed there was no other way to describe it but as fatherly warmth "You have gone out of your way to find my Kitten. Not only that, but I am well aware you go to her home every day to clean it up. I even know you bring fresh flowers every day, or so does her doorman say."

Niles tried to bring himself to smile at least a little, but there was no way. He knew his gesture wouldn't make any difference in the long run, even if Stewart was looking at him kindly still through the awkward silence he was creating.

The businessman didn't seem to think it awkward.

"You're in love with C.C., aren't you?"

That was when Niles froze. What could he possibly say here? If he told a lie, he'd probably just end up making things worse and pushing things back down deeper than they'd ever been before. He'd never have another chance to say what he felt again, and he'd have to live with it for the rest of his life.

But if he told the truth...well, in a sense, he'd be free of it. Even if it meant admitting that he had a damn fine way of showing people he cared about them.

One option was better than the other, even if it showed him up for the fool that he was.

"Yes," he breathed, nodding a little. "I...I am in love with her. I've loved her for years..."

Stewart gripped slightly at his upper arms, and Niles suddenly worried that he'd made a mistake in telling.

But the businessman's next words surprised him even more than the original question.

"Good. 'Bout time one of you wised up and admitted it."

Niles' jaw dropped. What he'd just said...it...it all made it sound like Stewart had known all along?!

How could he have known?! Niles had done everything in his power to keep it a secret for as long as...well, as long as he'd loved her! If she couldn't know, what was the point of anybody else knowing?!

"How...how did you work it out...?"

Stewart looked almost painfully smug as he rolled his eyes, "Oh come on, Niles, it was almost painfully obvious! You two dancing around with your little wordplay - a classic mating dance!"

The more Niles thought about it, the more he realised Stewart was right. The pranks and insults. The way he always seemed to know where she was and what she was doing, purely so he could be there to annoy her. He'd been dropping hints all over the place for years, seemingly without even realising that someone else might pick them up...

"Don't worry about it, though," Stewart put his hands on his shoulders again, smiling. "You're a good man. Nothing can change that. And I'm sure that C.C. knows it. Just like I'm sure that she has feelings for you, too."

Niles felt his heart...not soaring. But maybe a few of the pieces had just stitched themselves back together.

It wasn't every day that he got hope like that - of any kind, really - from someone so close to C.C..

"You really think so...?"

"I do," Stewart nodded, before slapping him on the arm in the kind of gesture used to get people moving. "I mean, my Kitten is not known for having long, lasting relationships with men. You, however, are the only male she's kept in her life for over a decade. Knowing her, that should give you the clue of just how much she actually like you. But we can't be here spending all day talking about it. We have to get back to the station."

He was right about that for sure, even if Niles was still in a small amount of disbelief over what he'd said before. It didn't seem likely that C.C. could really care for him like he did her.

But that didn't matter. What mattered was getting her back. And the only way to do that was to turn around and go back in the direction they'd come.

He'd owe Lane, Noel and Mrs Babcock an apology when he got there, but he'd also make the promise that it would never happen again.

Nothing mattered more than finding C.C., and he wasn't going to let her down by giving up.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Chapter 13**_

" _Enchaining"_

Another loop fit snugly over the needle, and the whole row of them fell into place when C.C. pulled. The scarf was coming along nicely - it was pretty much halfway there, and she'd started wearing a long groove on the inside of her mattress to hide it anytime Thomas came down. She didn't want him to think that it was his, or to just decide to take it away anyway...

What could she do if he found it, though? She'd only just recovered from the last...event...and the beating that had then gone along with it because it turned out the police had been sniffing around...

Despite everything looking like a nightmare that couldn't possibly get any worse, it left her hopeful. Niles had told the police something that made them suspect Thomas, and something like that couldn't just go away after one time, could it...?

She didn't want to think so. It would leave her with nothing if she didn't have hope. She could barely move still, a lot of the time, and more often than not she just wanted to rest.

But even with hope, she could barely think of anything other than rest...

Thomas had allowed her rest, too. The past few weeks had been oddly peaceful – he'd left her to her own devises, mostly, only coming down to patch her up or feed her. Of course that his newfound concern for her physical wellbeing hadn't been born out of the goodness in his heart – he simply didn't want to deal with a dead body instead of just a tired one.

Naturally, in exchange for this "kindness", he'd claimed that she could stop wasting his time and money, which in turn had translated into him not feeding her as much as she would have liked. As a matter of fact, recently she'd gone without for a couple of days. C.C. didn't know how many – the tiredness and the starvation made thinking difficult. It was like...like there was a permanent impenetrable fog, clogging up her brain, and no amount of rest seemed to clear it away...

It only left her enough energy and thought to knit. To do that one single, repetitive, simple action that didn't need any thought, when she really got into the swing of it.

Perhaps when she was done with this first scarf she'd get started on another. Maybe one for her father...

" _Who would have imagined you'd be able to do such a good job with those hooves you call hands, eh Babs?"_

C.C. couldn't help but smile at the voice's jab. It was rather...eerie, but she'd noticed that as of late her thoughts had started sounding a lot like him. It was as if her own inner speech had been hijacked (and replaced) by the voice of a rather annoying British butler. Not that she would have it any other way — his voice, imaginary or not, was a source of great comfort to her.

In the face of abject horror and trauma, the best thing she could do was take refuge in soothing memories, and that included the butler. She'd never dreamed that she'd ever say it, but Niles (or rather, the thought of him) was a saving grace amidst utter horror.

"It's pretty decent, isn't it?" she thought back, smiling down at her creation.

" _Indeed. Pity the same can't be said about your cooking."_

C.C. rolled her eyes at the voice as she finished off the last row of stitches, tugged on the remaining yarn and weaved it into the scarf's edges, effectively finishing the bind (and her very first scarf) off.

She couldn't help smiling to herself at her handiwork. She'd never had to do anything like it in her life before now, and yet she'd managed it better than she'd imagined she would.

She supposed that was what a human mind was capable of doing when it was pushed. That could be for whatever reason, though, not just the one she found herself in.

Hers just happened to be on the awful, extreme end...

That made her stop smiling, and the scarf dropped into her lap. As proud as she was, the whole thing was tarnished by the fact that none of this was really her choice!

" _You are doing what you can to survive, Babs. You chose to do it this way - no one made you make the scarf. It's yours, no one else's."_

The voice sounded like reason, but C.C. didn't know if she could really be so sure. Thomas had left her the book on learning knitting - he wouldn't have just picked any old books for her to choose from!

Did...did he want her to learn, for some reason?

Whatever it was, C.C. took her finished work and slipped it into its hiding place. Thomas may or may not have wanted her to learn, but he wasn't getting that scarf.

He wouldn't get the one after that, either. That was already for her father. And then the ones after that would be for Noel and her mother. Then the next few after that would be for Maxwell and maybe for Nanny Fine, if she still had enough yarn by the end of it. She'd fill up her mattress with gifts for her family and friends, and show them all how much she'd thought of them in the time that she'd been there.

In the time that she was still spending there...

The voice must've detected the melancholy tone, because it gave her the mental equivalent of a playful nudge in the ribs - the kind of gesture designed to take someone's mind off something.

" _Even saving a scarf for Miss Fine? You're getting soft in your old age, Babs..."_

C.C. felt the corners of her mouth twitch into a smirk she couldn't quite help. It was just too much like old times to not react to it.

It deserved a retort, just like old times.

" _At least I can still get soft; unlike the butler-shaped fossil I happen to be speaking to..."_

She thought she almost saw his amused grin right in front of her eyes then, but as the vision opened his mouth to toss back his own zinger, the image was snatched from her head by the trapdoor bursting open.

Immediately, C.C. was back against the wall, terror gripping her heart and her eyes at all times on Thomas as he stared holes through her from the top of the ladder.

What did he want? He hadn't brought food in a while but it didn't look like he had any on him, and she'd already healed up from his beating...

As if reading her mind, Thomas then snapped his fingers, pointing towards the top of the stairs.

"Get up here now, you're gonna bathe when you do."

Bathing...bathing only meant one thing to C.C. anymore...

 _It was happening again..._

It'd been weeks since he...since _the event_ had happened. And now he was obviously back for more.

She didn't want it again - never again!

But what could she do about it? He'd beat her and make her anyway, and then it would repeat itself, no matter what she wanted...

She wasn't a person to him. She was a thing.

A trembling thing, who had no choice but to obey and climb the ladder as fast as her malnourished body would allow.

"You took too long doing that," Thomas spat, before pointing a commanding finger up through the entrance to her cell, towards the stairs. "Get upstairs to the bathroom, and do not keep me waiting this time."

C.C. went, trying hard not to stumble in her weakened state, and trying even harder not to cry. If he saw that she was, it would only make things worse for her...

Who knew, he might get so angry that he'd just...do it then and there as punishment...

But he didn't. She made it all the way to the bathroom without...anything happening...

But the door closing with a sharp snap behind them both made C.C. stiffen, and all the cells and nerves in her body went on high alert when Thomas spoke.

"Undress. Now."

 _Oh, God. This was it! He was going to do it here - there wasn't any getting away or fighting it, and she had to do as he said or he could kill her...!_

Shaking in terror (and desperately trying to hold off tears that she knew were already falling anyway), C.C. pulled at her clothes, her heart dropping further with every garment that she removed.

So when she was finally stood there, humiliated in her bareness, shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold and quietly praying to herself that it would be over quickly (even if she knew to her own despair that it really wouldn't be), it jarred her senses to see that Thomas didn't stare at her like...like it was about to happen...

He briefly gave her the kind of look that suggested something had been done adequately, before turning towards a shelf, and taking down...something folded, with...a pair of heels on top of it? And a small make-up bag to boot?!

He thrust them in her direction, "You'll wear these after you've bathed. Doll up and don't keep me waiting - we have to eat."

The tension gripping C.C.'s body didn't ease so much as let go in confusion and surprise.

...Eat? _They_ had to...? They had never eaten at the same time – Thomas had either given her food or eaten it in front of her, there had never been any... _sharing_ a meal or anything like that!

But...she supposed if it meant that the... _other thing_...was delayed for at least a while, she could live with it.

So, she took the dress, shoes and makeup, and nodded to what Thomas had said.

"You have forty-five minutes," he said, opening the bathroom door again. "I have left your soap and hair products in the bathtub."

With that, he stepped out of the bathroom and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him. Not that C.C. was even thinking about escaping — weak as she was, it would be lunacy to incite his anger by trying to make a run for it when she knew perfectly well she'd never make it out alive.

For a few seconds, the only thing C.C. felt she could do was stare at the locked door. This was new territory for her — so far she'd either been forced to lie with him or kept underground. He'd never ordered her to "doll up" or even look presentable around him. She'd assumed he had no interest in her being well dressed.

She didn't quite know how to feel about what she was being asked to do, but her brain soon reminded her that she'd rather sit quietly by his side than let him...well...do the...the thing.

She didn't know what he had in mind; frankly, she didn't wish to know. She only knew that she had to comply if she wanted to survive one more day. So, after taking a deep breath, C.C. carefully laid her new clothes on the bathroom's large marble counter and stepped into the shower.

It seemed another age passed in the space of a few minutes before she even turned the water on. She was still weak and her mind had to take time to process...everything, if she was honest.

What had just happened didn't feel real. It was too outside everything that she'd known since she'd been taken for it to feel real.

The shower was real. And being in it usually meant a horrible, inescapable thing was about to happen...

But it wasn't happening yet today. Something else was instead, and she couldn't delay any of it happening. Otherwise, she knew Thomas would drag her out of the shower (whether she was done or not) and have his way anyway.

And that could end up somewhere she really didn't want to go.

So, she turned on the water and started to wash immediately, hoping that she hadn't somehow zoned out and wasted all of her time just staring at the wall.

It turns out that she must've only been at it for a few minutes, because she managed to wash her hair and her body thoroughly and finish up in the shower without any interference.

After she'd towelled off, she turned her attention on the clothes that Thomas had left for her. It was...a very pretty dress, as it so happened. White, with mid-length sleeves, and covered in a floral pattern. The pair of short heels even matched the colour of the flowers.

Thomas had clearly planned it all to a fault. But why was he doing it in the first place...?

It was something that kept her wondering as she dried off her hair and combed it out, before slipping the clothes on.

Again, she was incredibly surprised when the dress fit her perfectly. She'd kind of expected it not to, seeing as most of her clothes were either a little baggy on her or several sizes bigger than she really was.

It was odd, to be honest, being dressed presentably...

She'd gotten so used to surviving in dirty rags, that actually looking somewhat _pretty_ was a foreign (and previously unthought) idea. She inspected herself on the mirror, twirling this way and the other to see how the dress looked on her from different angles. She couldn't help her small smile — this was how her old self would have dressed. She wasn't that woman anymore, of course, but it was nice to have some semblance of what she used to be.

She carefully ran her fingers over the soft fabric, smoothing out the creases and enjoying the feeling of her dress beneath her fingertips. It was the softest and cleanest garment she'd worn since being taken...

She might not have liked what she saw in the mirror, but the dress was absolutely gorgeous. In a way, it was making her feel a little bit more... human.

She went back to the task at hand with that _happy-ish_ though in mind. She had to try and make the best of a horrible situation, and that included cherishing little moments like this, when she got the occasional glimpse of the woman she used to be.

The next step on her short list, was blow-drying and styling her hair, which was soon done. Her hair had grown considerably since being abducted, so she chose to tie it up in a neat ponytail so it would not get in her face.

Lastly, she put on her shoes and quickly applied her make-up, taking care to get everything just right. Knowing Thomas as she did, she was sure she'd get beaten up, should her appearance look anything less than perfect. Or worse.

It was best not to find out, either way.

Once she was done (and as he'd taught her to do after every bath) she picked up every item she'd used and stored it into a small drawstring bag he'd always leave by the toilet. Again, she was no better than a dog to him. As such, he didn't wish to share his own personal space with items that were meant to groom a "lesser being".

If she thought about being stubborn, she'd say that she didn't want to share personal space with him anyway. In fact, she'd keep her personal space as far away from him as humanly possible and do everything in her power to keep it there.

But she didn't have that luxury, and if she so much as even tried being "insolent" like that, she'd probably earn herself another couple of broken ribs.

Sometimes it was still tempting, getting to spit words back in his face and getting to be left alone for a while longer...

But she knew it was risky, too. If he went too far while she was...well, like she was, he probably would end up killing her.

It was best to strike a fine balance – thinking it, but never saying it.

And it was best not to keep Thomas waiting anymore while she inspected her appearance. She'd probably managed to do everything to his "perfect" standards, but if he found out he'd been held up because of her admiring herself he'd probably punish her for "vanity".

And he might have said that he wanted to keep her face pretty, but he probably wouldn't mind roughing it up a little on a non-permanent basis to teach her a lesson.

So, steeling herself for whatever he could possibly have to say or do next, she knocked on the door to be let out.

Thomas opened the door right away, probably eager to get a look at what he'd created. He certainly seemed happy with it, because a grin the Cheshire Cat would envy suddenly appeared on his face.

C.C. would've preferred it on the Cheshire Cat. At least the worst you got with him was harmless, incomprehensible nonsense. With Thomas, once you figured out what it was he was about to do, you wanted nothing more than to get away and not let him do what he wanted.

"Excellent," he said, just as pleased in his tone as his face depicted. "Now, put out your left hand."

Her...left hand? What could he possibly want with her left hand? Why did he have to be that specific?

C.C. thought about hesitating, but knew that couldn't if she didn't want him to get angry, even if she had no idea what he wanted...

She did as he said, feeling a jolt of horror and revulsion go through her when he grabbed her hand with his right.

 _Oh, God - he was going to drag her into his bedroom! He'd dressed her up as part of some kind of sick fantasy and he was going to-_

Thomas fumbled in his pocket for a moment, before pulling out a large diamond ring, bigger than most people would have ever seen in their lives, that he pushed down her finger.

That felt like a bucket of ice water over C.C., freezing her in place and catching her breath far short in her throat. It was joined by another when a plain white gold band followed, and she wished that one of the ice water buckets could be real enough to drown her.

This felt just as bad as what she thought he'd been about to do.

He...he was making her...

"With this ring, I thee wed..."

Thomas muttered the words with the smug self-satisfaction of a man who knew he was getting exactly what he wanted.

And C.C. felt her heart shattering, staring miserably at the rings that had been forced onto her hand and thinking to herself that she'd never imagined this was how she'd ever wear them.

She'd pictured a big ceremony and wearing a dreamy white dress (the one she was currently wearing was but a travesty, given the situation) with delicate details in lace and silver thread. She'd imagined lovingly holding newly bejewelled hands. She'd imagined sharing a close dance. She'd dreamed about laughter and joy and kisses…

But she'd never imagined this.

Not even in her worst, most twisted nightmares.

It was becoming increasingly evident that this man – no, this monster, was not planning on letting her go. He'd planned this to a tee, not one detail was amiss in the perverse scheme of things he'd come up with. She was a mere accessory to what he'd visualised as the perfect life. She was but a simple cog in the machine – a vital part of it, but a mere cog nonetheless. She had no more value than a decorative vase, and she daresay that he'd probably take more care of said vase than of her.

"You are to wear these rings at all times," he told her, finally letting her hand go. "Especially when you are upstairs with me."

C.C. had to force herself to nod, even if she felt that the little bit of her soul that still remained in her had just broken into a thousand pieces.

"Good. I'm not having you wandering around looking like you don't belong to anybody."

C.C. felt her stomach give another twist.

 _Belong to somebody_. She really was just a thing to him – maybe occasionally holding the same ranking as a dog that he didn't want the world to think was a stray. Maybe he'd make her wear a collar next, or tie her up on a leash whenever he wanted to make her stay...

She'd never dream of answering back, of course – especially not when the idea she could sarcastically remark in her head might seem like a good idea to the delusional bastard right in front of her.

No, it was best to just do as he'd said and nothing more, in this case.

He seemed satisfied enough with the cowed reply. He pointed out onto the upper landing, in the direction of the stairs back to the first floor.

"We're going to the main dining room to eat now. We're celebrating this happy occasion. Get moving."

C.C. didn't have any choice but to do as he said, even if every part of her body was screaming that there was absolutely nothing to celebrate.

This wasn't a wedding. It wasn't a marriage. This was some sicko who would kick her down the stairs for so much as looking at him wrong, and who still expected her to act like the perfect wife and serving maid...!

The last thing that thought made C.C. want to do was eat, but she knew she was going to have to force whatever it was down anyway.

She'd probably get another beating if she was seen apparently not "celebrating".

To her credit, she didn't even flinch when he grabbed at her arm and practically frogmarched her all the way down to the dining room. He'd beaten her up many times before, whenever she'd flinched away from his touch – it was her instinct of self-preservation what kept her from shoving his slimy hands away from her.

This was what it took for her to survive.

This was what she needed to do to survive.

She could only keep repeating this to herself over and over again, hoping that it would somehow give her the strength to endure a difficult night. C.C. was certain he still had plenty of nasty surprises in store.

The dining room was the first of many. Just as he'd said, there was a table laid out for two people. She was quick to notice that he'd used the good china, and the tablecloth was made of the finest silk. She'd briefly wondered if he'd make her eat on the floor like a dog or perhaps force her to wait on him before she was allowed to have the scraps, but it seemed she'd been wrong. There were two plates laden with food, two cups filled with wine, two sets of cutlery ready to be used and two cloth napkins neatly folded by their plates. She was actually going to get to eat like an actual human being for a change!

There also was a small side table next to the main one, upon which Thomas had prepared a small selection of wines and a number of hors d'oeuvres for them to snack on before moving on to the main course.

Usually, the sight of so much food would have made her incredibly happy, but today it was nothing but a horrible reminder of the nightmare she was trapped in. What was especially upsetting about the setting ahead of her was the fact that the room was illuminated by the gentle glow of candlelight, and there was soft music playing in the background – an obvious attempt at creating a "romantic" atmosphere. There also were rose petals scattered across the entire dining room, and atop their seats (which were opposite to one another) there were place cards – one read Mr Jones, and the other read Mrs Jones.

All of it – especially those awful place cards – made her feel more than a little bit like throwing up. Nothing about any of this was romantic; the only strong feeling taking over her body right then was disgust.

And even if she couldn't do what her body's initial reaction was for fear of Thomas' reaction, then...no, she couldn't. Her next plan of action was to flee for fresh air, but where could she possibly do that in this house? All of the windows looked like they might as well have been sealed shut, and there weren't exactly a lot of doors that led to outside! Even trying to get one open would probably earn her something in Thomas' books, anyway!

Not that he was intending on letting her look around then. He just nodded towards her chair. The one marked with the little card that said "Mrs Jones", even though C.C. refused to recognise the name and title in her mind.

"Sit. But in the future, when we eat, you'll remain standing and not try to sit until I've been seated first."

C.C. only took in what he said because it made her think about how highly Thomas clearly regarded himself. How many people of no apparent status demanded that they be the first to sit, before everybody else at the table?

He thought himself some kind of medieval lord and master of the place, and clearly expected the same kind of treatment!

And would deal out the same kinds of punishments if he was crossed.

That little added thought was the only thing that kept C.C. from saying something, fearing what Thomas could have in store if she did, and she nodded again before taking a seat at the table.

She still refused to call it "her place".

No matter what he did or said, and no matter how many times he was obviously going to refer to her as his wife, C.C. knew it was something that she'd never be.

Thomas took the seat opposite, beaming triumphantly. This was clearly an image he'd had in his mind for a while - he'd probably made everything "just so", maybe right down to the food on the plates and the clothes C.C. had been made to wear...

That particular thought made her feel like she couldn't eat a single thing, and even if the urge was there, she wouldn't allow herself to down the wine. Thomas had already made her vulnerable enough by making her weak - she didn't want to add alcohol into that mix.

Not even when Thomas picked up his own glass in a ceremonial fashion.

"I consider today to be a success on my part," he told her, obviously making some sort of toast about himself. "I finally got you to a respectable standard. You're now an upgrade of what you were, and it's all thanks to my time and attention."

If everything that had happened was his idea of attention, then C.C. didn't want to know what his idea of neglect was.

But he wasn't finished, either, "So, here is to my hard work, in breaking you down to build you back up into the perfect woman. Your new role as my wife starts today."

He then held the glass there, and for a moment C.C. wondered what he was waiting for...

Until his expression started to shift from proud to irritated, glancing between her and the glass in his hand.

He was waiting for her to clink her glass against his, sealing the toast and "celebrating" with him...

Not that this felt like an occasion at all, in C.C.'s heart. Maybe a funeral, at a push...

But even a funeral had a sense of love and togetherness around it. Family and friends held one another in mourning and everyone present returned home to their beds, safe, at the end of it.

This...captivity, or whatever name could be given to this horror, held only fear on one side and the satisfaction of control on the other. No family or friends were around to comfort, and C.C. lived in fear of what would happen the next day every time she went to bed at night.

And she envied all the people she knew who weren't in pain, and who'd get up the next day and go about their lives.

Surviving didn't seem worth it, some days. But she kept on doing it anyway.

And there was only one way to survive this situation; she had to clink her glass against Thomas'.

She made it as neutral a gesture as she could; she didn't want him to get angry with her for being too reluctant but she didn't want him to think that she meant it, either.

Though why she bothered with that last point, she didn't know. Thomas didn't care if she meant something, as long as she obeyed.

And he was certainly happy once she'd done it. He took his own drink back and sipped it, before nodding towards the food.

"You may eat now. Do it quickly, but don't stuff yourself like a pig or I'll regret giving you this opportunity."

C.C. tried not to snarl at the bastard. _Giving her this opportunity_ – that was a laugh! As if being fed was something to be thankful for…

Part of her wished she could simply reach for the knife and stick it right in his throat. She wished she could sit silently by his side, watching as the light left his cold, grey eyes. She wished she could make him feel even an ounce of the pain she'd had to bear throughout this hellish months.

But wishing and doing were two very different things, and she was well aware she did not have the strength to face him off. He'd made sure of that.

Challenging him wasn't brave – it was reckless. It was calling for a beating (or worse) when currently the monster's anger seemed to be dormant. She wasn't naïve; it would be roused sooner or later, but she'd rather put it off for as long as humanly possible. C.C. was nothing if an experienced strategist – her whole life had been a series of carefully planned battles; calculated risks where she would gamble away, always confident she'd win. That wasn't always the case, of course, but she knew when to stop. She was a pro at cutting her losses and stepping back when the situation called for her to do so.

Right then, the odds were stacked against her, and the slim chance at somehow escaping wasn't worth the risk.

Again, some might see her decision as cowardly, but those people simply didn't know how being in this position felt like – they'd never been abused to the extent she'd been. So she'd much rather curl up in a little ball and play the waiting game. Sooner or later, the moment would come for her to leave, but until that moment came around she'd have to sit tight and bite the proverbial bullet.

And today, that meant eating this meal while praying that he didn't do anything else to her that night.

Fat chance of that happening, knowing him, but she could always live in hope.

She made the meal last as long as possible without appearing to drag it out, just in case. But it was over all too soon anyway.

As soon as he noticed that she had finished, he reached into his pocket again. C.C. stiffened, not wanting any other little "gifts" from him that he could congratulate himself on and call himself generous for later.

But the thing he fished out was a long piece of paper.

"These are your chores and other wifely duties. I expect you to carry them out and to do them well. A man likes to have a well-run home," he said with the confidence that only delusion could bring.

He slid the thing across the table, and even as C.C. got closer to being able to read it in full, what she was seeing was making her organs shrivel up and sink inside.

Cooking...cleaning...two things she'd never done in her life and now she was suddenly expected to be able to do them well?! What would happen if she didn't?! She didn't exactly see Thomas telling her that it was alright and she could try again!

She wouldn't want to try again. She didn't want to do it or to have to be there in the first place...

The next point on the list told her that she always had to be "dolled up" when she was upstairs. "Always" was underlined so hard it nearly went through the paper, and it was followed by an angry-looking, hastily scrawled note about how Thomas would not stand to have an ugly, lazy bitch as a wife.

" _Then let me go,"_ C.C. thought mournfully to herself.

But even if in her head she was already dreading her so-called "duties", she knew what she had to do right then.

"Yes, sir," she said, nodding.

Thomas gave her a crooked smile – a smile that so often reminded her of a hungry crocodile. "Good. You can start now by cleaning the dishes. Afterwards, you and I are going upstairs to consummate the marriage."

 _Oh no._

That was what she'd been afraid of all along.

She hadn't been spared...the event...happening again. She'd only had it delayed in time to let him have something else that he wanted – a meal and her obedience.

She didn't want to go. She'd sooner drop dead if that was an option!

But, while her heart shattered over and over again, she kept being reminded that it wasn't an option. She had no other options, unless she wanted more violence and probably unimaginable pain for an even longer amount of time.

So, as she shakily and miserably gathered the plates and carried them precariously to the kitchen, C.C. knew that she was going to take as long as possible cleaning the dishes until they gleamed.

Not just because she'd never done it by hand and needed to learn how fast, but to delay the...the thing for a few minutes longer.

And only when she was alone, while Thomas sat there in the other room waiting to consummate a marriage that didn't exist, would she allow herself to cry.


	15. Chapter 15

_**Chapter 14**_

" _Unexpected Visitors"_

Four months. Lane could probably be a bit more precise than that, if she really tried, but she didn't understand what the point would be, unless for some reason she felt like showing off her latest case that was rapidly becoming a dead end.

She'd barely slept in weeks, but even the extra added hours that other people spent resting had turned up nothing. How could it have come to this? She never took this long on cases - it was why she'd earned her position over so many other people in the first place!

She didn't like admitting it - she hated it with a passion, as a matter of fact - but, much to her shame, she was stuck.

And her being stuck meant that C.C.'s family was stuck, too. They were scrambling desperately for options, and had asked for another press conference because they had another announcement to make.

They were upping the reward, from half a million dollars to two million. It broke Lane's heart to know that - they were relying on too much all at once from the public, who might not be able to provide the information they wanted purely because they hadn't seen anything.

Not that she could tell them that. She wasn't going to crush the hope they had - it was her job to keep it alive, even if she felt like she was failing them.

She was the last one there, in the little waiting area behind the conference room. She'd be opening the talk with the media, of course, but she was mostly just there for support. She was going to tactfully try to avoid questions which told the world that there hadn't been any updates.

They should be there to focus on Mr and Mrs Babcock, who gripped each other's hands and rose to their feet from their seats when they saw her coming.

Mr Brightmore was sat with them - just as he always was, for anything that involved C.C.. He'd probably elected to be a little bit more emotional support that day.

She greeted them all with a simple nod, "Good morning", and a brief handshake. She knew better than to ask how they were all doing - she already knew that, and the dark circles under her eyes probably told them she was better off not being asked, either.

"Are you both ready to get started?" she asked the couple instead. "Everything's been set out, and everyone's seated."

There was no sense in dragging out what they'd already done before and knew how to do, even if by now the case had gathered national attention and there were more cameras and reporters out there than ever before.

It was for the best that they didn't waste time, either - who knew, they could hit a lucky strike that time, with the increased audience, and someone with information could be watching right that moment...

So, after sharing a deep and thoughtful look with his wife, Stewart turned gravely back towards Lane, "As we'll ever be, Detective."

Lane nodded, knowing it couldn't possibly be getting any easier to do all of this. They really were just as ready as anybody could ever be, going onto national television to beg for their daughter's safe return...

She gestured with an arm, ushering them slowly towards the doors to the conference room, "Step this way, then..."

The Babcocks nodded and looked over towards Niles once more, who assured them that he'd wait where he was until the whole thing was over.

Lane suspected that the Babcocks weren't the only people he was waiting for, once it was all over.

But she couldn't mind about that now. She had to escort C.C.'s parents into the conference room, shielding her eyes from the camera flashes that went off as the doors opened, and directing them to the table so they could take their seats.

Four months. She wondered if they'd be doing the same thing again, only for more reward money, another four months down the line.

The journalists and photographers were all on their feet, to begin with, but as the three occupants of the stage came to their little table, set out with three individual glasses of water and a large microphone stand. The reporters hadn't wasted any time in filling the stand-up, either - they'd probably all been elbowing each other for the right to get their own mic in close for an exclusive of some kind...

Everybody had to make their living somehow, she supposed.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats," Lane's commanding voice was enough to get them to sit, and she leaned forward a little bit to make sure she was heard in the mic before she began to speak. "Now, you all know the basic facts of this case, but for those who don't know who I am, my name is Chief Detective Christine Lane of the New York Police Department, I am in charge of this case, and I'm here to support Mr Stewart and Mrs B.B. Babcock in their public announcement today."

She checked briefly out of the corner of her eye, making sure that Stewart and B.B. were ready before she even tried to let the reporters get on. Even if they had done this before, it wouldn't be fair just to set the room on them before they'd prepared.

When Stewart gave a nod back (having slipped his left hand under the table to hold B.B.'s), Lane finally opened the floor.

The hands shot up immediately, and Stewart pointed out one reporter to give the first question.

"Hello there, Mr Babcock - David Spader, from the LA Times - what new developments have been made in this case that have led you to bring us all here today?"

Stewart frowned a little, looking out of the corner of his eye at Lane. She was the one who handled questions about developments in the case, usually, and there just... hadn't been any recently...

But right then, he knew he couldn't stop what he was doing and despair over that. The chance of changing all that - finding something or someone and making a breakthrough - was the reason they were all here.

He gripped B.B.'s hand a little tighter before he answered.

"We, um...don't have any new developments in the case itself," he answered, feeling rather lame for the first time in one of these things. "We're here to make a repeated plea for information, and to let everyone know that the reward money has gone up from half a million dollars to two million."

The decision to up the reward money had been an easy one. When nothing else seemed to be working and all other leads looked like they'd gone cold, it was their failsafe decision.

No amount of money was too small. They'd give away everything they had, as long as it meant that C.C. could come home.

Just as expected, his announcement caused a stir among the gathered press – hands were soon in the air, and all of them were crying out their names, practically begging them to listen to and answer their questions. Stewart disliked having to make a spectacle out of their own personal tragedy, but the more people they reached, the higher their chances of finding C.C. would be.

All of the journalist's questions seemed to circle around the same issues:

"Have you got any new leads?"

"Who do you think did this?"

"Do you think this amount will encourage people to speak out?"

Stewart didn't really have the answers to their queries. The only one he did have – who they suspected – couldn't be answered aloud, given the fact that they had nothing against Thomas except a little bit of circumstantial evidence. It was frustrating; knowing that he'd done it, but not being able to even point in his direction for fear of legal retaliation.

Not that he was afraid of Thomas suing them for libel. He had the best team of lawyers money could pay for, but Lane had advised them against doing so, for it could make that bastard feel cornered and cause him to retaliate, which could, in turn, translate to their daughter ending up worse off than she already was. It was best, as much as Stewart disliked to say so, not to incite his anger. For C.C.'s sake. They had to be smart about it – wait until they could hit while the iron was hot, so to speak.

"We certainly hope that this…monetary prize will encourage all those who know or have seen something to come forward," said the businessman, trying very hard not to cry. "We…we beg you, if you know something, please talk! It's been four months without her already, and there is nothing we want more than to have our daughter back home…"

His words were too much for both he and B.B. to bear, and soon both of them were openly weeping, and not caring one whit about it. What kind of parents would they be if they didn't show any emotion while their child was missing?

Not that they knew so, but their tears were touching all those who were watching the broadcast deeply – well, almost everybody.

Among the bulk of honest viewers (most of them parents themselves), was the one man who knew where their child was. The one man who had caused their suffering in the first place – and he was relishing in it.

The look and sound of it were almost as sweet as the cake he'd had Claire bake for him. It was the first one she'd made that hadn't earned her even a little bit of correction and for that, Thomas was happy. It proved that his methods were working.

He laughed to himself as he thought that he could do this for money - maybe set up a training course to teach other husbands how to correct their wives...

Of course, Claire still had a long way to go, but under his hand, she'd be the perfect image of a woman in no time. She was already far better at all of the chores he'd set her - she didn't burn food anymore, the cleaning didn't leave spots or stains behind, and corrections across the board were fewer with every passing week.

Of course, he still did random "corrections" to make sure she didn't forget who was in charge around here. A man had to keep discipline in his home, otherwise who knew what could happen?

A woman left to her own devices was an unacceptable thing. The man ruled, and he being the perfect specimen of one, knew how to rule with an iron fist.

He might even choose to break her a little more that day, by telling her about all of this. Crushed spirits made for better subservience, in his mind.

And better subservience led to better food, and less crying when he took her to his bed.

That was something else he had to work on. But he was enjoying himself as it was, so he wasn't in a hurry to change anything there.

He was still going to lie low about all of this, too. He was sure that that Lane bitch still hadn't quit sniffing around, and the last thing he wanted was for all his hard work to go to waste.

In a year's time, everything would be perfect, and no one was going to take it away.

With that, he took another forkful of the black forest gateau he'd had her make. It was his favourite cake in the entire world. It had taken his bitch a couple of tries to get it right (the first three attempts had been disastrous, to say the least), but this time she'd outdone herself.

Clearly, she'd been reading the cooking manuals he'd bought for her.

Again, this was yet another proof that his method was working, and that Claire was on her way to being the perfect wife he'd always wanted and deserved.

The abrupt, shrilling sound of the bell ringing put an abrupt end to Thomas' gloating. He frowned, lowering his plate down on the coffee table – he wasn't expecting any visitors. He never did. He had no friends, his family lived out of state and that Lane whore was currently busy – who could it be?

Lucky Claire was tucked away safe in her room - he couldn't have just anybody coming to the door and seeing her. What if they recognised her from that fucking press conference her pathetic little family had set up?

Two million dollars...as if Claire was worth that amount! He'd given her her place, and it wasn't a place reserved for somebody who was worth two million dollars!

He was still thinking about it as he went to the door - he'd probably shake his head and laugh a little, if he didn't know that he'd probably still be doing that when the door was open and it might look odd.

Not that it would've mattered. His face immediately took on a look of surprise when he saw who was stood on his doorstep.

An elderly couple, both of them wearing the finest clothes (and jewellery) that money could buy. The difference in stature between them was probably the first thing anyone noticed when they looked at the couple – she was a shrivelled, old lady of about 5' 1" with kind blue eyes and a beaming smile. She had her (dyed) blonde hair carefully styled in a French twist and her perfectly manicured nails were of a deep red colour. Unlike his wife, the elderly man was a staggering 6' 2", he had a perennial stern expression on his wizened face, and his receding hairline had long since turned grey-white, a fact that simply didn't seem to bother him. Neither was he bothered by the fact he needed the assistance of an ornate cane to get his feeble body around. He'd always been fit, but as the years had gone by, his middle had expanded without him really trying.

These were his parents…

"Mom...Dad," he looked between them and tried to look happy. "Hi...! I...well, I wasn't expecting you...!

He hoped his laughter didn't sound too nervous when he said that last part. It was an often-irritating fact that his parents sometimes just seemed to know when something was up, and he didn't want to give them a helping hand in any way by acting strangely.

"Well, we didn't think we needed to book an appointment to stop by and say hi to our boy," his father joked, reaching forward and giving him a hearty slap on the arm. "We came down to Jersey for a medical convention and we thought we'd just come over and see how you were doing!"

Just fine, without any interruptions, Thomas thought to himself. Having Claire in the house at last had made everything the way he wanted everything he wanted it to be.

Well, as he'd thought to himself, nearly entirely the way he wanted it to be. But he didn't need to get that specific with his parents.

He certainly wasn't going to tell them that-

"You look like you're doing well," his mother smiled, seeming to follow up to his father's statement. "You're certainly smiling a lot more than I've seen you in recent years!"

"The boy's probably been keeping himself busy, Martha," his father grinned. "There's nothing like some good, honest hard work and money in the bank from it to put a smile on a guy's face!"

They really had no idea.

It was hard work, putting Claire in her place and getting what he wanted out of it. That he would never deny and he would always be proud of accomplishing. Turning a stubborn nag into a prizewinning filly was no mean feat, but somehow he was managing.

Just thinking about it more now was...relaxing.

Not that he was going to explain any of it to his parents. They wouldn't understand his notion of perfection - hell, they might even agree with that Lane bitch!

That would never do. They might've been his parents, but he wasn't above getting them both to keep quiet if it came down to it.

He was their little boy, he was sure they'd believe anything he said without having to resort to...greater measures, anyway.

"Would you like to come in?" he told them, gesturing over his shoulder, towards the inside of the house, "I was having some cake."

"You just said the magic words!" jested his father as he wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders. "You know I have a massive sweet tooth!"

"And by that, he means he is pre-diabetic," Martha interjected, grinning devilishly at her husband and nudging him on the side.

Thomas had to make an effort not to screw up his face at the way his parents related to one another. He'd never agreed with his mother being allowed to poke fun at his father, it wasn't becoming on a respectable woman like his mother. Had it been his wife who'd made fun of him, she would have been slapped silly.

Not that she'd dare. She knew who was in charge around here, even if his mother seemed unaware that she belonged to his father.

He took them into the kitchen, where he'd left the rest of the cake under the glass-lidded serving dish that he'd first made Claire wash and shine until it gleamed. He wasn't about to let her put the delicious, homemade, completely unburnt and flavourful (he'd stressed that last part by screaming at her) Black Forest gateau in a dirty serving dish. It would reflect badly on him to guests if he let her do that.

It wouldn't even be as though he could blame his wife if she got it wrong. They didn't even know that she was there, and he was planning on keeping it that way for a long time.

She could start being seen by other people when her fucking family and that stupid know-all butler thought she was dead.

"Would you like some coffee as well?" he asked as they made their way into the kitchen, the tv he'd neglected to switch off still blaring away from its position by the wall. The cake stood proudly in its dish on the side, and Thomas felt his chest swell a little at knowing he was the reason it was there. "I can put on a fresh pot."

"Absolutely," his father stepped over to admire the cake, probably practically salivating already. "A large cup, and a large slice of this will be exactly what this doctor ordered!"

Thomas nodded, smiling a little at his father's use of his favourite catchphrase. He'd never gotten bored of it and had been using it non-stop for the past forty-something years Thomas had been a part of the Jones family. His father was a no-nonsense kind of man, but he did have a penchant for bad puns and witty wordplay.

It was part of his charm, he supposed.

Edward Jones was nothing like his birth father, whom Thomas had despised. That bastard had thought himself o big and powerful – used his size and strength to intimidate and hurt Thomas, but the joke was on him. He was free of him now, and while he rotted in jail, Thomas was having the time of his life. He'd always wanted to impress his adoptive father, he'd done anything and everything to gain his praise and favour. Luckily for him, gaining it hadn't been too hard – in Edward's eyes, he could do no wrong. He was the golden child, and Thomas was all-too-aware of this.

He supposed it could be said that he loved his father, but since he had little to no experience where love was concerned, Thomas couldn't really tell. Not that it was a matter for concern – he wasn't one for thinking about his feelings. He found it both pointless and rather bothersome.

"Sit down, pops, while I'll get started on your meal," he said, gesturing towards the kitchen table. He then looked over at his mother, who'd been oddly quiet since they'd arrived in the kitchen. She was stood right in front of the TV, eyes glued to the screen and to Claire's weeping parents.

"I feel awful for those two, every time I see them doing something like this," she said aloud, and probably not to anybody in particular. "They must be so desperate, to put on another conference like this and to put up the reward by so much...! They just want her home, the poor dears..."

Had it not been too obvious a gesture, Thomas might've rolled his eyes. He didn't get why his mother felt she had to care so much - it wasn't like they were anything to do with her! They weren't her patients, she'd never meet them, and there wasn't any point in feeling sorry for somebody who just wasn't going to get what they wanted, anyway.

Not that any of that stopped his father from craning his neck to look at the screen.

Edward frowned deeply, "It's a sad thing, when somebody just goes missing like that. I can't even imagine how I'd feel if we were going through what they're going through..."

That was when Martha finally peeled herself away from watching the conference, turning towards her son.

"Have you heard about any advancements in the case, or anybody else at work?" she asked. "They must keep you all informed with what's going on, right?"

Thomas stiffened – he hadn't really told his parents that his old boss had called off the production. He had already gotten another job at the theatre, of course (and this time he'd been promoted to stage manager!), but he knew that, perhaps, he should have told his parents.

He knew it would seem a little bit off, given that he usually told them everything about his work. Still, he didn't really have any other option apart from simply telling them (part of) the truth and hope that they didn't push the issue.

"I really wouldn't know, mother," he said, cutting three thick slices of cake and carefully placing them on three different plates, which he then carried to the kitchen table.

"How so?" asked the woman, reaching over for her own plate. "Don't they tell the staff what's going on?"

Thomas shrugged as he went back to the kitchen counter to retrieve the freshly made pot of coffee from the coffee machine. "Oh, they usually do, but I am not longer working for Sheffield Productions. When she disappeared they called the play off."

Martha stopped reaching for her plate, her jaw dropping open a little.

"You're not?"

Thomas shook his head, grabbing the coffee and bringing it back with him to the table.

"Thomas, you never told us this!"

Yeah, in case you made a connection between the two, Thomas thought. His parents, despite not exactly being the ideal married couple (or even ideal parents) in his mind, were both extremely clever and it wouldn't have taken them long to work out that his leaving timed...well, so well with the disappearance.

"Exactly; that's not like you at all," his father agreed, sounding sterner than his more incredulous mother. He probably considered it some kind of desertion, or something. "You're always telling us about your job. What's so different about this time?"

Thomas seated himself at the table and shrugged, pulling his plate towards him. He'd have preferred to keep it all to himself for another day, but needs must and part of him couldn't help but want an outside tester for how well Claire was coming along.

It was really all her fault this conversation was happening in the first place...

"Nothing, really - it just...I just didn't make a big deal out of it this time. Everybody was going once the play was cancelled, anyway," he said, starting to pour his coffee. "Besides, it wasn't as though Miss Babcock was that well-liked around the place..."

Martha audibly gasped. It reminded Thomas of when he'd been younger and she'd seen either him or somebody else do something bad in the house. And that had included the neighbour's dog, when it had decided to take a dump on their front porch right after his father had finished sweeping it off.

Not that he should've been doing that, anyway. Sweeping was a woman's job.

That was probably one of the reasons Claire hadn't been liked around the theatre. She'd taken a man's job, lorded it over everybody and then expected superior beings to do dogsbody work for her. They were all probably glad that he'd taken her, and that he was now putting her to her proper use.

He took a bite of his cake as his mother cried out in his direction.

"Thomas Jones, I don't care how old you are, you take that back right this instant! The poor woman is missing, and even if it isn't nice to say it out loud, she could even be dead!"

Fat chance, Thomas thought to himself. There was no way he was going to let his first choice for a wife just die on him like that. What would he do with the body? And he might already have the room set up, but what if it took him time to find another one that he'd then have to train and correct, until she got to where Claire was?

No. He wasn't going to allow that to happen. Claire needed his permission for everything and that included dying.

"I don't think she is dead, Mother," he replied flippantly, taking yet another forkful of cake to his mouth. "You know the saying – only the good die young."

Martha made a disparaging noise. She'd never heard her son talk about someone with such spite! It wasn't like him, and it certainly was not how they'd educated him while growing up. She didn't know much about this Babcock girl apart from the little her son had told her, but she was sure she couldn't be that much of a horrible person! And even if she was, no one deserved to be snatched away from the streets, as she had.

Martha looked over at her husband, giving him the kind of pointed look that says "help me here!" that most parents seem to understand. Edward had always been the breadwinner and, to the outside world, the head of the family. But in reality, it was Martha who captained their family life with an iron grip. Which was just as well – Edward and Martha had always agreed that, even though Martha would still continue to work after their children were born, she was to be the homemaker and Edward the main provider.

He was more than happy to lie back and let his wife take the reins, and that had made for a wonderfully harmonious family life throughout their fifty-seven years of marriage. She'd lovingly and carefully scheduled his and their children's lives throughout the years, always finding the time in her own busy schedule to spoil them rotten with delicious home-made family meals and elaborate family outing plans.

In Edward's eyes, she was the most wonderful woman and wife that there would ever be. To quote one of the founding fathers she was the "best of wives and best of women" and what she said, went. They were one of those couples that actually supported each other when co-parenting, and no matter how old they became or how grown their children were, that would never change.

Those first facts were why he had no trouble in backing his wife up, combined with the fact that what their son was saying was perhaps one of the worst things you could possibly say about a missing person (and it didn't matter who that person was).

And that last point, combined with the fact that he would always parent all of his children, was why he had no trouble in putting his son in his place.

"You know, son; one of these days, you're gonna have to learn some manners," he said, making sure his voice had that hard edge to it that he'd always put on whenever any of the kids acted up when they were young. "This kind of thing is not a joke, so you shouldn't be treating it like one!"

He couldn't understand where the attitude was coming from - the thought they'd raised their boy better than to go around almost openly laughing at people who were missing! They were both doctors, for crying out loud, they had patients and case studies of hurt people around them all the time, and even when they hadn't brought work home they'd always taught their kids to be kind.

So why was Thomas, all of a sudden, lacking empathy? He wasn't even showing the removed kind of sympathy that you saved for seeing someone get hurt on television!

By all rights, he should've been showing the kind of empathy that was supposed to come when you'd known a person. Like everyone else at the theatre probably was…

He obviously couldn't speak for how well-liked Miss Babcock was or not, but Edward knew people. Whether or not they liked her, he knew that they'd feel something, knowing that she was missing.

Even if that "something" was guilt, for things ending up the way that they had.

Thomas, meanwhile, was staring at his father and silently wondering why he was doing this to him. He was his son - his boy - and he hadn't spoken to him like that in years! Not since he'd last gotten into trouble!

Then again, he didn't understand a lot of what his father did; he let his wife tell him what to do, including making him do chores around the house even though it was women's work, and now...

Now, he was telling him what jokes he could and couldn't make about one inferior being that wasn't even a very well-liked example of other inferior beings!

She didn't matter. She was only there to be of use, and now she was being put to use. Why did everybody else have to make such a big deal out of it when he made one comment?

But he didn't want to make his parents upset. The last thing he needed was having them on his back – he had enough with the Lane bitch already. He had to do what he did best: be deceitful. It had always worked for him before. Repentance was not something he bothered himself with; it was pointless. But for some reason pretending to be sorry when he wasn't, seemed to put people at ease and, usually, got him out of the unwanted limelight.

Thomas lowered his fork, face contorted into what Thomas had always identified as a mildly embarrassed expression, and hung his head. He even stayed silent for a few extra moments to appear to be thinking about what he'd said. It had always worked when he was a child, and the results were immediate – there was a softening in Edward's angry look.

His father seemed to be reassured by the (erroneous) conviction that his parental disapproval had prompted change within his youngest offspring. It fed his fantasy that each and every one of his children had grown up to be decent, law-abiding citizens with his same wishy-washy sense of morality. Thomas found this rather sad.

He regarded nowadays morality and infuriating political correctness as nothing but two big, fat frauds. Mankind had maintained a harmonious status quo for millennia: men on top and women on the bottom, mere pawns to use and dispose of when they'd outlived their use.

But suddenly, for God knows what moronic reason, the script had been flipped and now the natural order had been disrupted by modern-day deluded ethicality.

Thomas could spit on modern society's ethos. Social Justice Warriors were always so keen to look down at everyone else from their high horses and to put a metaphorical muzzle on anyone who disagreed with their preposterous stance. God knows he'd been forced to keep his true feelings under wraps – still was, since he didn't fancy becoming a social outcast.

He could just carry on with his views in private. Scumbags on the Internet could stop him from writing out a whole manifesto on why women had to be kept exactly where they were otherwise the natural order of things would tip out of balance (it would - could you imagine if women got to be in charge? If one ever snuck into the White House and stole the Presidency from a man?!), but they couldn't make him stop what he was doing in his own home to his own wife.

One little liberal bitch on some chatroom had had the nerve to say that he probably lived at home in his mother's basement. She had no idea how successful he was, or what a perfect specimen of a man he was when you got to see him in person.

She thought him sad and pathetic; a lonely virgin who'd never find anybody to make him a man and would never amount to anything.

Well, that wasn't him, and he could prove it.

And that was all because he'd taken steps to ensure that he got himself a wife. He couldn't be this sad, bitter loser (like virgins were and would always be until they weren't virgins anymore. It seemed everyone on the Internet knew it and it was the only thing everybody could agree on, these days) when he'd done something grown up and taken control.

Claire wasn't perfect yet, but she would be. And his parents were never going to find out that their comments were hitting too close to home to be comfortable.

They even looked like they were buying his ruse.

But he thought he'd better drive it home, just to be sure.

"Maybe I was a little rough on her...she wasn't that bad a boss. And it's not really like anybody deserves to go missing," he mumbled his lie. "Sorry...I'll shut up about it now."

His father pursed his lips, before grasping his cane to get up from the table, "Well. Let's just hope that someone finds her soon. Then we can put all of this behind us. I'll be right back."

With that said, he began to head off in the direction of the bathroom.

It left him and his mother alone, and Thomas felt relieved that the worst part of their visit today now had to be over.

Why would it not be? She had already said boo to a goose with her husband's backing once by telling him off over the whole non-issue about Claire. For the sake of it not turning into an argument, Edward would obviously not let her keep going on at him about what he'd been saying (not that he was going to take back his word and start pushing his luck).

It was over now. It had to be.

But it wasn't over, in Martha's mind. She had too much going on inside that she needed to get out, simply to be at peace with herself.

And maybe at peace with her son, too...

Edward going to the bathroom was the perfect opportunity to ask, though. She hadn't told him - and she wasn't going to tell him, either - about the phone call that she'd gotten from the police, regarding this Miss Babcock's disappearance.

Her disappearance, and whether or not they owned a white Ford Bronco.

It had been a few months ago, back when Miss Babcock had just been kidnapped. Edward had been out at a Doctor's appointment while she'd stayed home, watching TV while doing some knitting. Normally, she would have gone with him, but since she'd been feeling a little under the weather and Edward had insisted that she stay put since it was only a routine check, Martha had caved.

She'd been in the middle of watching Oprah when the phone had rung. She'd very nearly let the answering machine get it, but with Edward out and about on his own (and considering his limited mobility) she'd thought better of it and answered the phone.

Much to her surprise, it wasn't her husband on the other end, but rather NYC's Chief Detective, Christina Lane. The woman had gotten straight to the point and told Martha that she was investigating Miss Babcock's disappearance, and that her son was currently being looked into as one of the potential suspects.

It had nearly sent Martha to the floor then and there, learning that her son was being investigated! Her boy had promised her that crime wasn't the life he wanted to lead, after his last time in juvenile detention. He'd certainly never go so far as to kidnap a person! It seemed impossible that he could be involved in any way whatsoever, even if he did work at the theatre where Miss Babcock was the producer!

That was when Detective Lane had asked if they had a white Ford Bronco, and if they'd loaned it to their son recently for any reason.

And it had struck Martha that they had. Thomas had been involved in a car accident, and he'd been waiting for a new Rolls Royce to arrive, but as he'd still needed to get around and they didn't need the car so much, they'd given it to him for that time.

And that had sent a feeling like knots twisting in her stomach, which (even though it killed her to admit) Martha still occasionally got when she thought too deeply about it.

This was her son she was thinking about this way, connected even just a little bit to a horrible crime...

But she hadn't been able to do anything other than tell Detective Lane the truth, had she? She'd never lie to a police officer, especially about something as important as an investigation into a disappearance...

So, she'd told her that they did have a white Ford Bronco, and that Thomas had been using it at the time Miss Babcock had disappeared.

Lane had seemingly taken that all down, and had gone on to ask Martha a bit about what her son was like. Of course, after feeling a little confused by that question, Martha had replied that her son was quiet and usually kept to himself. There wasn't a lot more to say about him, other than his whole thing about cleanliness.

But that had seemed to be enough for Lane, who'd thanked her and hung up almost straight afterwards.

That had brought the knots on again full-force, and they hadn't relaxed any until weeks had passed and it had become apparent that the police weren't contacting her again.

But now...now, with Thomas not telling them everything like he used to - not telling them that he wasn't working at that theatre anymore...

Well, Martha could feel the knots tightening back up again, and she didn't know if they'd relax this time. She looked up at the man she and her husband had raised as their own; he had stood up to take his empty plate and cup to the sink. Years had gone by, but Martha could still see the frail, scared boy they'd met when first visiting the orphanage from where Thomas had been adopted. He'd been but a scrawny little thing, small for his age and in way more pain than any child should ever be.

She remembered Thomas had been playing on his own, away from all of the other children, and there had been a painfully obvious aura of sadness around him. Their appointed social worker had explained to them that the boy had gone through extensive trauma and would most probably pose a challenge for any adoptive parents, but both Martha and Edward hadn't cared one whit.

They'd loved him since the moment they'd seen their little boy, and they'd taken him home, making a vow to make him the happiest and most well-loved child in the entire world. They'd obviously encountered many obstacles along the way – it hadn't been easy to try and erase the print of abuse in Thomas – but little by little they'd seen progress in their adoptive son until he'd become a cheerful and incredibly charming little child.

He was the apple of his family's eye. The golden child. And yet, all of that love and care hadn't been enough to keep the darkness at bay. It had grown in him, like a disease, until it had nearly taken him over completely during his troubled teenage years. Martha remembered the many sleepless nights she and Edward had spent together, despairing over Thomas' choices. After his second stay in Juvie it had become obvious to them that he wouldn't follow in his sibling's footsteps – no Ivy League college, no successful career, no nothing…

That's why they'd taken the hard decision to send him to military school for a year. So, at the tender age of fifteen, he'd been shipped away to some isolated camp, where he'd spent the better part of his junior year.

They'd thought that it might do him some good. He'd said he'd wanted to try and have a structure after coming back out of the correctional facility, so they'd made that executive decision.

And it seemed to have worked - they didn't hear a peep out of him or his previous criminal record after that. It had given him the structure and the discipline that he'd so desperately needed, but for some reason, he hadn't been able to find in his parents.

That sometimes made Martha sad, thinking that she'd failed her son that way. But Edward had reminded her of the difficult place Thomas had come from, and of all the things their boy had seen that they'd never understand. It had obviously all caught up to him, and that was why they hadn't been able to deal with it by themselves.

He'd said that there was nothing wrong with getting a little extra assistance when it was needed. And after all, that's what those places were for...

That had convinced her enough to stop feeling quite so worried.

And when she'd seen the results, she thought it had worked entirely - their boy was so calm and polite after! He barely said boo to a goose unless he had to, and he stopped staying out late with no warning or without telling them where he was going. All the fighting stopped, too, and he got to working hard.

So hard, he ended up going to Yale and getting a degree. And seeing that happen had healed up the cracks in Martha's heart, which had opened in despair at the thought of her son never making anything of himself.

He'd come through, even if it had taken some hard decisions to make it happen.

Again, he'd never been much of an intellectual and they had had to provide him with money for him to stay in the way of life he was used to since his line of work didn't exactly pay well, but Martha had been sure that his life had finally straightened up – that he'd left the darkness behind…

She prayed to God he had…

She'd always worried about his lack of a long term partner, and at this stage in his life, she knew it was unlikely that he would ever form a family of his own, but other than that she wanted to believe her boy was a good, decent human being.

Perhaps she only needed to talk to him to finally put her fears to rest – hear from him that he really had nothing to do. He'd never lie to her, would he? He hadn't done so in decades, so she didn't see why it should change now!

"Thomas," she spoke softly, getting to her feet as well and going over to where her son stood, "Can…can I ask you something?"

Thomas glanced up at her from where he was washing his plate until it gleamed before he stacked it neatly on the drying rack. He didn't trust dishwashers - he never really had, and he always insisted on washing up his own cups and plates and knives and forks by himself.

At least, that was what she'd been led to believe. Thomas was actually finding it a little bit frustrating that he was having to do it by himself this time, instead of getting Claire to do it.

But he supposed it couldn't be helped this time. And the nervous way his mother had just asked her question made his mind put all other thoughts to one side for a moment, while he dealt with whatever was going on.

It sounded like it was something important. And he wasn't sure in the slightest whether he liked that or not. His mother's attempts at important conversations had a fifty-fifty chance of ending up bad for him.

Like being told that they'd support him, seeing as his job wouldn't let him keep his house. Or that they were sending him to military school.

But he couldn't just tell her that he didn't want to hear it, either.

"Of course, Mother," he said, inspecting his coffee cup to check how deep the stains were before he squirted a generous amount of dish soap onto it and filled it with water. "What is it?"

It took a moment for her to gather up all her courage, and she fumbled at her hands all the while, but eventually, Martha managed to speak.

"I...a few weeks ago, there was a call. From Detective Lane of the New York Police Department..."

Thomas nearly dropped his cup in the sink, just about managing to hold onto it and not give the impression that he'd just had a moment of panic, or that he had any idea of what that whore Lane could possibly want from him.

Or his parents. He couldn't believe that that bitch had had the nerve to go to them! Who the hell did she think she was, passing by him to talk to his parents?!

"What did she want?" he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Martha shuffled her feet, part of her feeling like this was perhaps a bad idea.

"She wanted to know about the car, and if you had it the week of...well..."

She hesitated, looking to the floor before sighing and directing her eyes back up at him again.

"Did...are...are you absolutely sure that you had nothing to do with Miss Babcock's disappearance?"

The question was so direct, Thomas nearly dropped his cup again. But this time, he gripped it harder - like he could crush it in his hand with the rage that was starting to build just beneath his skin.

It was Claire's fault that it was happening. She'd drawn the police and that slut Lane into this. They'd gone to his parents as though they had any right to interfere and that had made his mother suspect and that made her upset.

And somebody was going to have to pay for making his mother upset.

It was Claire's fault, so Claire would pay the price for it.

But that had to wait. His mother's peace of mind came first, and he alone had to see to that. Preferably before his father came back. If he knew his mother, he was certain she _hadn't_ told his father about the call. She'd always been…lenient with him, and would keep some things from his father to spare him being in trouble with Edward. Still, she would always insist on talking about it with Thomas herself, but it was easier than getting Edward involved.

Thomas disliked many of his mother's attitudes (the woman certainly needed to learn to be a better, more obedient wife) in regards to her wifely duties to her father, but he had no complaints about her as a mother. His parents' marriage was surprisingly strong despite its flaws, so he was not going to barge in where he wasn't being called. No, he'd keep his opinions to himself.

He already had his own marriage to think about for him to be troubling himself with his parents'!

No, what truly mattered here was casting away the shadow of doubt and suspicion that was suddenly hovering above him thanks to his no-good bitch of a wife and that police slut. He wanted his mother happy and completely oblivious to what was going on. Martha Jones was anything but stupid, so her doubting his innocence was a liability. A loose end that needed tying up.

"Oh, mother," he said, gently depositing the cup on the kitchen counter so he could wrap an arm around Martha's shoulders. "Of course I had nothing to do with it! I mean, I know I've screwed up plenty of times in the past, but I'd never do anything as heinous as kidnapping a person."

Thomas took great care to never break eye contact with his mother, and he smiled reassuringly at her, just as he'd do when he was a child. He'd dubbed this his "puppy face" and it rarely failed where his mother was concerned. Again, he was her golden boy – what evil could he do?

"I'm sure it was only a routine procedure, since I worked with Miss Babcock to start with," he insisted, squeezing his mother's shoulders. "The police are doing a wonderful job, I'm certain."

Martha couldn't detect it, but Thomas words were dripping with sarcasm. And he relished in it.

Inconspicuously gloating over his triumph over NYPD's mediocre police department was one of his favourite pastimes.

But Martha didn't know that. She didn't know that he had everything to do with it. She didn't know that he often sat there, watching police reports and reading newspapers, laughing to himself over the fact that they were going around in circles, whilst he was on his way to having everything just the way he wanted.

She didn't know that he wasn't planning on stopping until the day when he felt that everything was just perfect.

It was precisely her unwitting ignorance (and, of course, the love and confidence she had for Thomas as her son) what resulted in her heaving out a long, tired sigh and nodding at what Thomas had said – a physical attempt at convincing herself that she really and truly believed in her son's words.

"Okay, son" she conceded, "I guess I was just overthinking..."

Thomas shrugged, always keeping the warm smile directed at his mother on his face, "Happens to us all."

Martha then brought her son into a quick hug, establishing that all was forgiven.

Even if, deep within, she still couldn't get the idea (or rather, the uncertainty) out of her head.

She knew that she wanted to believe him. This was her son she was thinking about! Her son, who might have done bad things in the past, but never anything like that!

They hadn't raised a monster, hadn't they?

No, her boy couldn't be a cruel, cold-hearted bastard – there was no way he and that son of a bitch were the same person. How could they, when Thomas clearly was a kind, loving son? No, there simply was no way.

Not her son, who was currently discussing some sports game or other with Edward, who'd just shuffled back into the kitchen. Thomas said he hadn't managed to catch the ending of the game, and Edward (just as he'd always do when discussing Football) was more than happy to describe every touchdown, field goal and pass in extreme detail.

He looked so ordinary, their boy. Just stood there at the counter, describing passes and goals with his dad like any other man on the planet might...

That wasn't the look of a man who kidnapped people, and held them against their will. Most of Martha was certain of that.

But a small part of her, lodged firmly in her heart where it refused to budge, doubted. Did the police really check up on everyone who worked with people who went missing? Ask about their cars at the time?

Something just wasn't adding up perfectly, and the knots were coming back again - twisting and tightening their way in, where they would stay until they found some reason to be relieved.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 15**

" _The Twilight of Hope"_

 _The night hadn't exactly been how he'd imagined spending his birthday. Then again, it never was. Since coming to America, he'd never been able to celebrate his birthday how he wanted. That was already a given, and it was something he knew Mr Sheffield wasn't about to change._

 _It was just the curse of having a birthday on a day marked by a holiday or celebration. Hallowe'en, for instance, when one's employer always insisted on throwing lavish costume parties._

 _A lavish costume party, that he always had to be on hand to serve, and tend to the bar, and generally see that every guest's needs were catered to._

 _There had been but one saving grace that year, and it kept him from completely wallowing in his own misery; Miss Babcock, dressed as a witch (in "the colours of her coven", he'd remarked as she'd stormed through the door and disappeared upstairs) had been dumped by her date before either of them had set foot in the house._

 _And that had presented Niles with an unforeseen (and very much open, considering Maxwell was too busy schmoozing backers to notice he'd left his post) opportunity to get what fun he could on his one special day of the year._

 _He'd grabbed a bottle of wine and some glasses as he'd gone AWOL, and eventually he'd found the producer - sat out on the terrace, her arms folded moodily across her chest and clearly fuming at all mankind._

 _Perfect. If he could get her to cheer up any, and engage in a few tossed insults, it might make the night more bearable._

 _And he knew just what he wanted to say to get the whole thing started off and announce his presence._

" _I heard that somebody out here was in need of her daily ration of virgin blood, but I didn't have any so I thought this Chianti might appeal to the Hannibal Lecter in you instead."_

 _Miss Babcock jumped at the sudden intrusion, looked up at him and frowned. That was a long way from the answer he'd been expecting from her. She really had to be upset for her to willingly decline participating in their usual wordplay._

 _Time to change his strategy._

" _Cat got your tongue?" he teased lightly, coming to sit next to her and offering her one of the empty cups, which she moodily took._

" _I'm really not in the mood, Brillo Pad," she grumbled, holding out her cup for Niles to fill. "So if you could try to be a little less of an ass than you usually are, I'd appreciate it."_

 _This time it was Niles who frowned. He wasn't trying to get a rise out of her (not more than usual, in any case), but this was how they communicated. It was their thing. He supposed this was one of those rare occasions when they had to stop their game for a little while, and listen._

 _Strange occurrence indeed, but sometimes necessary._

" _Gee, Babcock, what's got your panties in a knot?" he said, pouring a generous amount of wine into her cup._

 _She stuck him with a look that would've made most men shrink where they stood._

" _Don't pretend like you don't already know what, Dust Buster," she snapped, pulling the glass closer as soon as he was finished with filling it. "My date decided that there were places he would rather be tonight, than attending this party or even call himself my date!"_

 _Niles tried not to flinch back too much at her tone of voice and pulled up his own chair, pouring a second glass of wine. He was intending that one to be his, but he thought that he might have to grip it tightly in case Miss Babcock was still depressed and insisted on another glass before he could pour one out._

" _Perhaps it wasn't like that?" he suggested. Getting her to calm down certainly seemed to be the best place to start. "Maybe there was some work thing that he had to take care of?"_

 _Miss Babcock snorted out a sardonic laugh. Yeah, right. Work. On Halloween. No, that idiot didn't have anything to do, he simply hadn't wanted to spend time with her and had seen fit to inform her that he wouldn't be coming only two hours before it was time for them to go to the mansion._

 _He was an asshole, that was all, and she'd been left to pick up the pieces._

" _Yeah, right," she scoffed, taking a mouthful of wine, "Work...on fucking Halloween. Spare me, Niles, we both know he dumped me."_

 _Her words were followed by silence and C.C. downing her wine in one, bitter go. She was getting tired of being stood up by her useless dates. She'd much rather have no date at all than expect a man that in the end wasn't going to come._

 _She was honestly starting to consider going without men entirely._

" _Men are scum," she spat, holding out her cup for Niles to refill it._

 _Niles listened to the complaint, both perhaps agreeing with her more than a little and also a little insulted because he knew that he would be lumped together with homework (to his dismay) in order to make a point._

 _He took the bottle and poured another glass. He was considering making it a smaller glass than the last time, but he sensed that she'd have a sixth sense about that kind of thing and that he'd end up in trouble if she found out that he'd tried to deny her alcohol._

 _He also knew that he'd probably be in trouble if he tried to deflect her comment, or insist that not all men were as bad as she was suggesting._

 _But what else could he say? He wanted her to engage properly, and she already knew that he was up for playing devil's advocate (he'd been trying to soften the blow before; he understood where she was coming from about this guy's behaviour)._

 _So, he swallowed, then took a small sip of his wine, and went for it._

" _Surely you can't believe that about every man that you meet?"_

 _She glared up at him for a few seconds, before bringing the wine that she'd been nursing directly under her lips back to the table. Somehow, she managed to do it sharply but without spilling a single drop._

 _Niles didn't think it would be wise to mention then how much it looked like she'd been practicing that moment all her life._

 _Instead, he let her answer._

" _You know what? Maybe once, in the past, there was a time that I might've not believed it about all men," she said bitterly. "But now I know better. The ones that aren't interested, are playing the field before they pick one from their harem, and the ones that are interested only want something out of it, and the minute you make the decision to either give it up or wait a while, they go somewhere else. They don't care - all they think about is how big and masculine getting all the girls looks. Hence my earlier statement; men are scum."_

 _She punctuated that by taking another drink from her glass, staring daggers off into the distance. Probably at images in her head of all the men who'd ever treated her badly._

 _Niles had a feeling his name was among them, too._

 _He didn't want to take it personal. Not when it was easy to see her diatribe had come from anger at having been dumped by a lump of a man, but deep down he had already admitted to himself he'd done more than enough to prove Miss Babcock right._

 _In his own way, he'd had his fun with her too. Even if he probably wasn't half as bad as the average specimen of self-absorbed, narcissistic imbecile she was known to date, he had still done his fair share of damage. He just happened to be the poor idiot who'd been set up as the fall guy for other men's misdeeds._

 _Talk about rotten luck…_

 _He'd essentially not so much as walked but rather sauntered into the lion's den, waking it up and managing to gain its full, irate attention. One wrong move and it would be carnage. Make the right move and he'd be praised as the most skilled lion tamer in the entire bloody world._

 _Niles was afraid of very little, but even he was sensible enough to know that a scorned Miss Babcock was not someone you wanted to be around._

 _He was almost certain that he didn't want to be right in front of her then. But he still wanted to take the risk anyway._

 _Even if nobody else would, he was sure that the family would find him and realise just what a brave, lion-taming soul their butler had been before his untimely departure._

 _So, he took in a breath (trying to absorb some alcoholic courage through the scent of his wine as he did), and started speaking again._

 _He was going to ignore the fact that that was most likely a dangerous move, considering the silence was thick with tension already._

" _I think you might be...overstating it a little, when you say that all men are scum..."_

 _A scoff followed his words. A scoff and more unsettling silence. A silent Miss Babcock was a rare occurrence, but it never bode well for him when she was. Usually, her silence was a natural consequence of either one of his pranks going too far, or a failed business deal. He'd seen plenty of those throughout the many years they'd worked together, but he'd never witnessed any of her silences being laced with such anger before._

 _As surprising as it was, it was quickly dawning on Niles that this was the very first time in well over a decade that he'd seen Miss Babcock hurting. Really hurting. She was, to put it mildly, a…peculiar person. He knew she was a formidable woman, capable of eating the word for breakfast without getting a single hair out of place – that was the image of herself that Miss Babcock wanted to show to everybody else. It was not smoke and mirrors, either. She really was one hell of a tough bitch, and getting under her skin was a nearly herculean task…_

 _But the moment something did hurt her, she became almost like a tortoise – she retreated, hid within her hard shell, and pushed everyone else away. She couldn't stand being vulnerable, so more often than not, her sadness disguised itself as anger._

 _Niles didn't know what his next move should be after that. If words had followed her scoff, then he might've felt on more comfortable ground, but for him to be faced with silence and actual, angry hurt..._

 _He didn't know if he'd be stepping on thin ice if he continued._

 _Well, he was probably already treading on it anyway. It was probably better said that he didn't know if it would all start to crack and come apart if he continued. He didn't like not knowing, either - he and Miss Babcock both truly knew that they knew each other better than anybody else, and any time he was faced with a situation that suggested something he didn't know about her, or he went too far when he thought he was still within boundaries, sent his stomach turning itself straight into tight knots that didn't come undone again, sometimes for days._

 _That was why it was such a gamble when he decided to keep going. How could he not, when he'd already come this far and had already accepted his imminent demise if Miss Babcock took anything badly or personally?_

 _He had to do it. He'd sat with her to do something about how she was feeling, and he couldn't just stop simply because he was feeling a little bit uncomfortable._

" _I can assure you that it's the truth, Miss Babcock. Not every man you meet is going to set out simply to use you for his own gains."_

 _Miss Babcock still said nothing. Briefly, Niles wondered if she was even listening to him – she seemed too preoccupied with the last little sip of wine nestled at the bottom of her glass. She was twirling the stem between her fingers, eyes on the remaining liquid and mind seemingly elsewhere._

 _He didn't want to say it, but it bothered him. The fact that he was virtually being ignored bothered him more than he dared to admit. He hadn't been expecting her to pour her heart out to him, but at least she could have the decency to look at him, couldn't she?_

 _Still, he was very much aware he did not have a leg to stand on when it came to mutual respect. He seldom was respectful towards her, ergo he had little to no right to demand respect from her._

 _And yet, part of him (call it habit or routine) wanted to poke the proverbial sleeping bear with a stick. He was aware it could end horribly, but he just couldn't help himself. It was a dynamic deeply ingrained in his system – they were like cat and dog, constantly going after each other. It was their thing. Their way of communicating and relating to one another._

 _Right?_

 _Well, he'd tested the waters and it had clearly done something. But the reaction hadn't been as bad as he'd been expecting..._

 _Perhaps even the crying was a good thing? There was a chance it was simply her body reacting to being told the truth that she kept wanting to deny!_

 _Maybe he could try probing a little further, and see where that led him?_

" _There is more than one type of person in the world, you know," he said._

 _Again, Miss Babcock was silent. Niles took that as a good sign - if she'd snapped then, he'd definitely have taken things too far._

 _But he had to have been on safe ground. The producer didn't like being told that she was wrong, but the fact that she hadn't had an outburst over him telling her that she was made everything seem just that little bit safer..._

" _Most people out there aren't the manipulative creeps that you seem to suggest every man–"_

" _Stop it, Niles!"_

 _The shouted snap came so suddenly that the butler nearly jolted out of his seat, some of his wine lapping out over the rim of his glass as it swayed._

 _And Miss Babcock's glare made him wish that he'd fallen on the floor and had just crawled away._

 _He'd been wrong to poke the bear. He'd been wrong to think that she hadn't minded what he'd just said..._

" _You don't know men like I do," she growled dangerously, her angry, watery eyes never leaving his. "I've seen too many of them, been charmed and used and humiliated by all of them, and while they get to go off to their next little piece on the side, basking in the thought that they're God's gift to women, I get to sit here and be told that I'm clearly just not looking hard enough because I obviously only go for the scummy ones!"_

 _Niles felt a pang of hurt at that, and it forced him to speak up._

" _That isn't true!" he cried out. "You can't know what a person is fully like all of the time, and I'm not suggesting that you don't know the men you've met better than I do! What I'm saying is that there are billions of people out there, Miss Babcock! Can you be completely sure that all of them are going to be awful to you, all of the time?"_

 _It was enough to stop her from shouting back, but the producer still looked like she might huff or snort in contempt._

" _Odds are already on my side in that regard," she said bitterly. "And I'm not expecting them to change."_

 _With that said, she pushed out her chair and tried to march away from the table._

 _Tried to, because Niles had felt his stomach drop as she'd walked past and had automatically reached out to grab her hand and hold her there, shouting out as he did._

" _Miss Babcock, wait!"_

 _The producer's eyes widened at their current position, but before she could obviously demand to know what the hell he thought he was doing, he spoke before she could._

 _She needed to understand. She couldn't keep on going thinking that every man on Earth was just out there for himself, and would offer her nothing._

 _Especially when the exact opposite was talking to her right then and there._

" _You have...clearly been hurt a lot, but not everybody out there is going to continue that hurt."_

 _He hoped all of that might get her to stop and at least consider what he was saying. He hoped it might get her to stay, and to not try and snatch her hand back from his._

 _But he held his breath while he waited for her to speak, or to do something, all the same._

 _When her reply eventually came, it was not exactly what he wanted (she did yank her hand away from his), but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Knowing her, she could very well have told him to stick his empty comforting words where the sun don't shine and then stormed off, probably towards the exit. She could have delivered a hard, swift slap to boot, but somehow fate had seemed fit to smile his way and keep the producer from blowing up at him._

 _All in all, he had to count his blessings…_

" _Funny that you say that," she grumbled at him, fixing him with an icy look, "The one man who practically lives to make me miserable, taking one for the team and pathetically attempting to redeem his sex."_

 _Almost as if to punctuate her vitriolic statement (or, perhaps,_ _ **because**_ _ **of it**_ _) she swooped a hand down and clutched at the half-empty bottle of fine wine they'd both been drinking from. She downed the remaining liquid in a few big gulps before setting it back down on the coffee table, the bottle making a dangerous plinking sound as the glass impacted against the cold metal of the coffee table._

" _You are a real treat, Niles-y buddy," she cooed maliciously._

 _Niles couldn't help wincing at that. As comments by itself went, it was...bizarre, but not out of bounds for someone who'd had as much alcohol as she had._

 _But as observations based on their conversation went, it was, perhaps, the sharpest thing anybody could possibly have said to him in that moment._

 _He was a "real treat", as she'd put it. He hadn't had the right to even try getting her to change her mind about things which didn't concern him, and yet what had he insisted on doing?_

 _He'd called it "poking the bear". The name even made it sound like it was deliberate! And, maybe at first it had been, because he hadn't been able to stand her ignoring him, but that had changed when he'd seen just how upset it was all making her._

 _Just when he'd realised how much she was hurting, and how much he really and truly wasn't helping._

 _Usually all of his comments were meant to poke fun. But today, of all days, with that last comment that he'd made, he'd switched it around and hoped to try and comfort._

 _Some attempt. Some birthday...!_

 _He hated his birthday, he'd grown to hate it ever since coming to America, but this one took the cake for the worst birthday in the history of ever. Usually, it was his boss' insistence on throwing lavish Halloween parties that took weeks to plan, days to prepare and, more importantly, turned a day that was supposed to be joyful and relaxed into a candy-fuelled pain in the ass, what ruined everything, but not this time._

 _The only beacon of joy was the considerably hefty cheque he'd get at the end of the month – however thoughtless Mr Sheffield might have been, he was a generous employer, and October meant a doubled salary plus a birthday bonus._

 _Miss Babcock would always tease him about it when she gave him his cheque – being Mr Sheffield's business-partner-slash-financial-assistant, she was the one who doled out the wages at the end of the month._

 _He couldn't see that happening now. At best, she'd hand the thing over to him without so much as a word. The silence would not be golden, but at least she would be there and giving him his money. He'd take that blow and hope that maybe it meant that things would go back to normal at some stage._

 _At worst, she'd either not give him the cheque in some fashion, or make Maxwell hand out the money._

 _Niles didn't know which was worse - not getting the little money he normally received, or Miss Babcock refusing to have anything to do with him._

 _On one hand, he'd have to delve into his limited savings just to pay for things for the rest of the month, but on the other...well, he'd be met with a stony silence each morning that might never go away._

 _It was hell. And it was knotting up his stomach just thinking about either scenario._

" _Screw you," she spat, giving one last poisonous glare in his direction, "And screw this stupid party – I'm going home."_

 _With that, she turned on her heels and staggered back into the office, occasionally cursing under her breath when she bumped into things and finally leaving Niles alone._

 _The visual was pathetic – anyone who'd seen it would have called it so. There he was, a defeated and humiliated man, watching his heart's desire – the one desire he couldn't bring himself to admit – stumble away._

* * *

October the 31st had rolled in sooner than Niles would have liked. Usually, the godforsaken holiday would mean that he'd be rushing around, going over every last little detail to ensure Mr Sheffield's annual Halloween party was an absolute success. Baking, cooking, cleaning, polishing cutlery, those were his usual birthday activities.

Activities that, given the situation, had been swiftly cancelled.

No one was in the mood to celebrate when C.C. was still missing.

So, perhaps for the first time in almost twenty years, he'd been given the day off. He had asked everyone in the family not to plan any sort of celebration or even to congratulate him – he wanted to be alone, and as such he'd left the house early in the morning. Alone.

He'd spent the day walking around the city, stopping from time to time to have coffee or nibble on a treat bought from a street vendor. Central Park had been his final destination, and for the past two hours he'd been sitting on one of the benches in front of the Alice In Wonderland Statue, thinking about his last birthday and how different it had been to his current one.

Last year, he'd believed his birthday had been a bitter travesty – probably the worst birthday he'd ever experienced.

He'd been wrong.

Painfully wrong.

Impossibly wrong.

 _This_ birthday took the cake for the worst birthday in history. The worst, most painful birthday in history. He'd behaved like a pig towards Miss Babcock on many an occasion, his last birthday being yet another example of how much of a shitbag he could be, if he so chose. And, even if Stewart had repeated time and time again that he was not to blame for Miss Babcock's disappearance, on days like this he simply couldn't believe it.

He _wouldn't_ believe it.

Last year, his behaviour had cost him the opportunity of comforting (and, perhaps, bonding with) Miss Babcock. This year, his behaviour might have cost the woman her very life.

He really was the worst person alive, wasn't he?

Letting out a sigh, he crushed the little paper bag that had held one of his food purchases not long before. It was about as much as he felt like gifting himself anything this year - he wouldn't even have a cake. Usually, either the Sheffields or Miss Fine would buy him a small one, or if he had the ingredients to hand and the time, he might consider making one himself.

Now all he could think about was how he'd created the biggest mess imaginable. The kind that saw people hurt, when they didn't deserve it...

He dropped his eyes away from where they'd been boring holes into the stature and let out another sigh. It was almost as though he was hoping the heaviness in his chest would lift if he kept trying to breathe it out.

Not that it would. The heaviness was sorrowful guilt, and he knew that he would carry it for the rest of his long, lonely days.

They deserved to be long and lonely, for all that he'd done.

Last year's had been a horrible birthday, but at least Miss Babcock had been at home — she'd been angry and disappointed, but home at least. He had no idea what she was going through right then, and his mind kept coming up with the most terrible images and ideas of what was being done to her.

At first, he'd tried to keep himself from going down that dark rabbit hole, but it had become impossible to keep those thoughts at bay. He was trapped in his own real-life nightmare, envisioning Miss Babcock being hurt over and over again in his mind's eye.

It followed him everywhere he went, even after he'd stopped looking at the statue to try and switch the focus. He supposed that was the main component of the curse he was fated to bear for the rest of his days - perhaps it could count as an unwarranted but expected birthday gift? He knew for certain that he'd always wear it and bear it, even if he wasn't grateful to receive it.

He'd trade every birthday gift he'd ever gotten, just to see Miss Babcock back where she belonged...

But at this stage, he didn't know if that would ever happen. He could live in hope, of course, but what if all that hoping had truly come down to nothing?

The further away they got, the less chance it had. And Niles could feel his heart start to shatter into pieces so small they could either form a small beach or blow away on the wind.

He wished that he could blow away on the wind, too, but it would be too difficult for him to achieve, especially whilst feeling so caught up in his own crushing guilt...

It was all he could do to get off the streets, back to somewhere he could truly be alone and didn't feel like being surrounded by people.

The rest of the day was still his, but he knew he had to crawl into bed and wait it out when he got to the mansion.

Sooner or later, it would no longer be the worst birthday he'd ever had.

* * *

Smooth jazz notes were flowing out of the CD player and swirling around the small cellar, seamlessly melting into the air. The deep sound of the sax echoed in the small room, deep as an old soul and sweet as honeysuckle, and the trumpet sang its nostalgic tune along it, as did the piano and the clarinet. If you had closed your eyes, there in the darkness, you would have felt the world fading away around you; only the music existed. It was the air to be breathed, the ground to stand on – it was everything.

That was, perhaps, why C.C. found such pleasure in it. It helped her escape the bleak, unforgiving reality she was in.

Throughout her five months in captivity, her cellar had become (paradoxically enough) her sanctuary. She'd made it her own with the little things her captor had given her over the months, and she was fastidious about keeping it impeccable. She was, more often than not, alone within those four walls, and being alone was a luxury she had learnt to appreciate in her current situation.

Nowadays she was forced to spend a lot of her time upstairs, alongside her captor. She'd do chores around the house, cook his meals or…

…or warm his bed.

The mere thought was always enough to send a shiver running down her spine.

He hadn't lied when he'd told her she was to behave as his "wife" (or, his backward and misogynistic idea of how a wife should be like, at any rate). He'd been true to his word, and expected her to act as the archetypal homemaker, something she'd initially failed miserably at. She'd grown up without having to bother herself with menial house chores, so suddenly having to perform them all to perfection hadn't exactly worked out. This had, unsurprisingly, gotten her beaten up and starved practically daily, but she'd slowly started getting better at it, which in turn served to quell Thomas' fury for brief intervals of time.

They were never long, but since learning to keep the home and cook her life had…well…she wouldn't say gotten better, but it certainly wasn't as crappy anymore. It had been well over a week since her last beating, and he'd even congratulated her on her progress, gifting her a few Jazz CD's by way of reward for her improved behaviour.

It wasn't ideal, but it was the best she could do.

He'd never leave her alone when she was upstairs (lest she should try to escape), so all her chores were done under his watchful eye. As of late, however, he'd started to let her move to nearby rooms without him following behind, which was, in some regard, a step forward. She could hardly stand having him breathing down her neck at all times as it was. She remembered that the first time he'd allowed her some freedom upstairs was when he'd asked her to go get his mail. At the time, he'd been in the living room, sprawled on the sofa as he snacked on one of her homemade cakes and watched a football match. She'd expected him to follow her, but when he hadn't it had surprised her greatly.

Still, she hadn't been naïve – everything Thomas did, served a purpose, and she'd been certain he was testing her. Seeing if he could loosen up the leash a little. C.C. hadn't been about to waste the opportunity, so she'd quickly scampered to the foyer and retrieved the small pile of letters that had been pushed through the door's mail slot. They had been a few bills, a few leaflets advertising some thing or another, and a postcard from Thomas' sister – she'd been in Paris, apparently.

It was thanks to this very postcard that C.C. had realised that Thomas had actually taken her out of the state. The address scribbled on the "addressee" slot was in New Jersey. In a very _exclusive_ part of New Jersey, mind you. She'd been thoroughly surprised by the evident wealth Thomas possessed, but in no way that had changed her opinion on him or had caused her desire to flee to waver.

Still, she'd had to force herself not to scream at the realisation that she'd been taken all the way across the Hudson River!

She'd been terrified at the thought of the police giving up any search conducted outside New York, once they'd finished making individual inquiries. But to stop her from being completely crushed, the voice had reminded her that the police would've passed all details on to neighbouring states, and that just because one search had happened to turn up nothing, it didn't automatically rule Thomas out.

It was a thought that still kept her going, even right that minute as she "dolled herself up", as her captor put it.

He wanted it to be a special occasion (those words now sent a wave of nausea through C.C. every time), considering it was Halloween, so he'd ordered takeout food and had allowed her to take a bath (again, there was nausea, mixed with fear and trepidation). Now, he was most likely waiting for her to finish getting her hair, heels, makeup and dress ready, so that she looked "presentable" in his eyes when she went upstairs.

She was having to wear Thomas' favourite outfit of hers. A light blue dress with a pleated skirt, a button-up front that matched the white collar and turned-over sleeves. She also had to style her hair back, and slip on a pair of matching heels as well. C.C. saw the thinness of her cheeks and bitterly thought that "undead 1950s housewife" was probably a perfect niche costume for the night.

Not that they were going anywhere - he knew damn well that she'd make a break for it if possible, and even if she didn't, there was a chance that she'd be recognised.

So, they were to have dinner inside, with a bowl of candy left outside as far away from the house as Thomas could make it so that trick-or-treaters didn't even try knocking, and he had insisted that they watch a horror movie that night.

C.C. had thought about suggesting _The Stepford Wives_ , but the voice had replied that the irony would be lost on someone like Thomas.

The bastard probably wanted something with a lot of jumpy scenes to it. Something that had things leaping out at every turn, with no telling when or where it would happen. Something so scary, his twisted mind was probably telling him, that it would make her practically leap right up and into his arms, so that he got to be the strong, in-control one, and she was the helpless little woman, who couldn't live without her man or the safety he provided.

He wanted her to feel hopelessly small, and like she'd be nothing without him.

He wanted her to need him, and that was the last thing C.C. would ever do on this Earth.

She had to tolerate him to survive, but she would never run to him for help. He would never be the first person in her thoughts if she ever wondered about how to solve a problem, or get out of a situation.

He wasn't the voice in her head, guiding her to make good (or, at least, right) decisions.

No, he was a bully and an abuser. One that she had to keep happy and content if she wanted to see another crappy day.

With a sigh, C.C. gave herself one last look in the "mirror" (which actually was a polished metal slate that had been screwed to the wall – clearly, he didn't want her to be in the vicinity of anything sharp, like glass) and finally deemed herself ready. She only needed to apply some lipstick on and that would be it.

She hadn't been told what colour to use, but she knew he'd be expecting her to use the red one. He always did. The only time she'd chosen to use pink instead of red, she'd been beaten up, and she was _not_ looking for a repeat experience.

Carefully, while enjoying the last track of her Jazz CD, she applied the lipstick, making sure that not even the slightest bit of the red material got past the edge of her lips. Once it was on, she puckered her lips a few times to properly smear the lipstick and then put some perfume on.

It sickened her to have to do this, but what other option did she have? It was this, or being beaten up. And frankly, she'd gotten sick of being in pain. She had enough bruises as it was to keep adding more to the collection.

None of it had killed her yet, and she'd be lying if she said she'd never once wished it would, but now she was choosing to simply do as much as possible to keep it from happening in the first place.

It would result in a much happier ending for her.

Although, not immediately, as she heard the trapdoor unlocking and the ladder scraping a little on the floor as it was lowered into the cellar.

"Time's up!" Thomas yelled down into the hole, before he started to make his way down.

He'd probably been hoping to make an entrance that would startle her, or make her afraid because she'd been running out of time to get ready, just to remind her "who was in charge" around there. But because C.C. had just stopped on time, she wasn't as worried as she would've been as if she hadn't been finished.

She'd have gotten a beating for it, for certain. And probably starved for a couple of days, for "rudeness by being late" and "ruining the evening".

But she wasn't about to add to her last beating tonight.

Seeing the surprised expression on his face gave her a somewhat sick sense of accomplishment – like she'd taken the excuse to beat her away from him. Part of her was faintly aware that she should not be happy about being compliant, but at the same time it made her feel as if she had some control.

To an outsider it might have been a little confusing, but not being beaten because she'd behaved was, in a way, having the upper hand. He loved to beat her; it was probably his second favourite thing to do to her (the first being…well… doing _the thing),_ so taking it away from him was infinitely satisfying.

Either way, she was still treading on eggshells. It took little to nothing for Thomas' temper to flare, so she couldn't get too confident. Not when a predator was around.

She was certainly feeling like prey, as it was – Thomas was circling her, eyes scrutinising and taking in every inch of her appearance, almost as if he were judging what he'd probably deem a creation of his. She stayed still as he did so, praying to God that he found nothing to be angry about, and at the same time wishing she could just strike him across the face.

He'd more than deserve it, and it would feel so satisfying to cause him even an ounce of the pain that he'd caused her...

But she'd be as good as dead if she even tried. She doubted he'd actually go so far as to kill her (cleaning up afterwards and finding another victim he could get down there would be too much trouble), but she didn't want to test his limits. But the beating she'd get would probably be worse than any she'd had before, and she might end up with broken bones again.

And if she didn't want bruises, then she really didn't want those, either...

It felt like forever before Thomas finally let out a quiet _hmph_ , like he was sourly conceding something that he hadn't wanted to admit.

"Not bad, I suppose," he said with a hint of insulting sharpness, probably fully aware that there wasn't actually a thing out of place but hating the thought of praising her. "Now, we will go upstairs. Tonight's dinner is in its containers in the kitchen. You will serve these on the good plates from the cupboard. Don't get the wrong ones."

Of course she'd serve the food on the good plates. She didn't need him to say so again. He'd already drilled it into her by way of beating her over and over again whenever she'd gotten the wrong plates back when she'd just started doing chores for him.

Not that she'd dare to say that to him. Instead, she nodded politely at his words. She had to keep her head down and bite the proverbial bullet. She had to do whatever it took to survive.

With a grunt, Thomas roughly pushed her towards the stairs – it was his _charming_ Neanderthal-like way of letting her know that she had to get moving. In his eyes, she was not even deserving of words; she was just like a dog on a leash. But it didn't hurt anymore. She'd gotten used to being treated as an animal or an object. It didn't really matter to her, either. Not when there were much deeper (and still open) wounds that he'd caused.

The road up wasn't easy, given that crawling and wearing a dress didn't exactly go hand in hand (not to mention Thomas' near-constant pushing from behind her), but eventually both she and her captor had crawled through the hidden door in the fireplace and into the basement. She wasn't surprised when she found it prepared for the evening – Thomas was nothing if not meticulous when it came to occasions he deemed "important" or "note-worthy".

He'd actually "set the table", and by that she meant that he'd set up a TV tray for each of them, atop of which were a place mat, a knife (plastic for her, obviously) and a fork, and a glass. There also were a big, fluffy blanket and two pillows on top of the sofa, and a huge bowl full of candy lay on the small coffee table directly ahead of the sofa.

Wonderful. He really - and clearly, at that - expected the evening to go as though she was there of her own free will, when just seeing the blanket he was obviously intending to share with her made her want to run for the hills.

And she wasn't going to touch that candy. At least, not before he did. And if he told her to eat anything specific that he hadn't already, then she'd just have to find some way of fake-eating it that meant she could spit it out when he wasn't looking.

She'd have to be careful about that, though. If he even suspected that she was doing that, it'd probably earn her yet another beating...

She knew it should be raising alarm bells in her head just how many things got her beaten up. An outsider looking in, who didn't have to just buckle down and put up with it, would have them all going off in their head, too.

But it was just another part of C.C.'s continued fight for existence.

"Get the food," Thomas told her, slapping her hard on the behind as he went to go lounge on the sofa. "I want dinner and I want it to be hot."

C.C. flinched at the contact, not caring about any physical mark it might have left but feeling what had been done to her linger on her skin and crawl deep inside, until it instilled itself as a sort of a flesh memory.

She knew now that she'd feel that again, whenever that memory chose to appear, and there'd be nothing that she could do about it. Just like Thomas slapping her in the first place, as though he thought her a well-aged, prime haunch of meat, or beating her whenever she did anything to prove that she was not the delusion he had going on in his head.

But, as always, she was just going to put her head down and keep going. In this case, that was partly literal, as she ducked her head so as not to look at Thomas reclining there like a decadent Roman emperor, as she scurried away to the kitchen.

The food was in the exact same spot that he would always leave it, whenever he left takeout to be unpacked. It was...almost like it was designated to go precisely half a foot away from the hob of the range cooker, on the counter to the left, all boxes stacked and turned so they were wider than they were tall.

The plates were where they always were, too. She had no chance of getting ir wrong that time.

Almost on autopilot, she piled the Chinese take out on their plates (a full plate for him and only half for her, as per what he'd always instruct), retrieved a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from his wine cellar and then took their meal back to the basement, remembering to bring a corkscrew along, too.

Thomas was already under the covers by the time she came back, and the movie was already on. He'd chosen Stephen King's "IT". She didn't really pay much attention to it as she lowered the plates on their corresponding TV trays — she'd never liked horror movies to begin with.

She then handed the wine and the corkscrew to Thomas, who proceeded to uncork it and then poured two generous glasses of wine for them.

"Bring both trays over," he demanded, taking a swig of wine, "You are sitting next to me and you'd better cuddle up, if you know what's good for you — oh, and by the way, loosen the shirt. I want to see some cleavage."

It took C.C. all her willpower to not throw up right then and there into the food. His demands often got lewd and disgusting, but she still hated hearing each one as much as the last. They physically repulsed her, knowing that he got gratification from something she neither wanted nor consented to.

This was duress. She knew she'd be beaten senseless if she didn't obey, so she had no choice...

As much as she hated the thought of drinking too much wine around Thomas, one glass might take a little bit of the edge off, in this case...

So, before she even attempted to sit down, she knew what she had to do. As much as it made her want to weep to have to do it, she undid the first few buttons on the top of her dress, parting it as much as she could get away with.

And Thomas of course basically drank in the sight with his eyes as she sat down, "cuddling up", just like she'd been told to.

"Good girl," he said it as though he were talking to a dog he was fond of, and he put his arm around her, pulling her roughly against him. "Now, eat and watch the movie. But don't chew loudly - I want to be able to hear it and enjoy it without your disgusting sounds distracting me."

She almost replied that, if he didn't want to hear her, then perhaps he should lock her back up and enjoy the movie by himself, but she knew better. Being a smart mouth wouldn't get her anywhere.

She had to focus on eating. She didn't know when she'd eat again, so stuffing herself full had to be her priority.

She could only hope filling her stomach would distract her from Thomas' slimy hand creeping into her cleavage and settling on her breast. It wasn't easy, considering she was wearing no bra and that this was his sick way of establishing dominance, but she eventually found it in her to slowly lift forkful after forkful of rice to her mouth.

"Have you seen this movie before?" he suddenly asked her, roughly squeezing her breast in an attempt at both getting her attention and making her jump.

C.C. had to suppress a small cry — if he thought for a moment she was "denying" his touch or "rejecting" it, things could get ugly real fast.

"No," she eventually choked out, "I haven't."

Thomas picked up on her discomfort, and he found it incredibly amusing. That's why he squeezed her breast again, being as rough as he could be and digging his nails into her flesh.

"Oh, good," he grinned horribly. "Then you're a virgin and this'll be your first time...!"

Everything about those words made C.C. want to rip his hand out of her dress (and just physically off his wrist, for good measure). His hand gripped tight over her breast, practically crushing it in his hand, his nails sharp against her skin, and it made her want to cry out so he'd stop, but knew that if she made a sound in that regard he'd just do it more...

She couldn't even fight back a little bit, if she wanted to remain unhurt. Mostly. She was praying to God he'd let go of her breast so she could move it up to "entirely"...

She didn't exactly want to reply to his comment, either, but she knew she had to in some form. He'd take it as her being rude and not speaking when she was spoken to if she didn't...

" _Tact, Babcock,"_ the voice encouraged in her head. _"Come on; think. You can solve this, and find a way around it..."_

It was hard to think much with Thomas still rummaging around in there like he owned her, but she knew the voice was right. She could come up with something that meant she didn't have to answer the awful thing Thomas had said.

Anything was better than getting a beating.

"I'm not really into horror movies," she said carefully. "But Halloween is the time of year for them..."

"Damn right," Thomas said, feeling a sense of pride beginning to take hold of him. He knew she was uncomfortable, he was purposefully making her uncomfortable, and yet his bitch stayed in place, letting him do with her as he pleased.

This was exactly what he'd been after, and he owed his success to his own genius self.

She had understood her place at last. Now the uphill battle was over, and if she was smart enough and continued to behave, she'd soon be the happiest she'd ever been. The one thing his wife had needed, was a good man to guide her and shape her into a better version of herself. He was and would always be that man.

He'd won.

So, perhaps, considering the fact that she was behaving as she should, he could both give her some respite and, at long last, share both his story and the reasoning behind his relentless dedication to disciplining her.

After all, a wife deserves to know her husband, doesn't she? He knew everything there was to know about her; it was time they got even.

Besides, he couldn't help but talk about himself whenever presented with an opportunity. Why wouldn't he? Anybody could see that he had it completely made - a comfortable house, an easy job, more money than he knew what to do with, and now he also had a wife who saw to his every whim.

He should be the envy of every man. And any man with any sense should want to listen to him, to hear what he had to say.

And the movie was the perfect way to bring it up. Not that he needed an excuse.

"I really do see where these kids are coming from," he announced loudly, without taking his eyes off the screen. "I was born in a little town in Maine as well - just as dull and boring as Derry."

He only checked briefly to make sure he had her attention, but he was pleased when he noticed her eyes were on him.

He continued, proud as a peacock, "I was born in 1952. Not a lot to do in small-town Maine in those days and we didn't have a lot. My real dad's last name was Russel; he drank most of what we did have. Nearly got the better of me, too, when I was about six. Not much in the way of CPS back then. But I got taken out after one too many trips to the ER."

C.C. blinked at his words. Taken out? Did that mean taken out of the house...?

She nearly hit herself for being stupid. Of course it did - he'd said his dad's last name was Russel! He'd obviously been adopted out of state!

He'd come from a horrible place, too...and C.C. really didn't know how to feel about that. Well, apart from maybe thinking that someone really did know what they were saying when coming up with the phrase "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree".

He'd grown into an abuser, just like the man who'd put a six year old in the hospital. She couldn't say what his adoptive parents were like, but adopting and apparently giving him a new, wealthy lifestyle (family money was the only way a theatre production assistant could afford all this) had clearly done nothing.

Done nothing, apart from make him into a spoiled, immature, arrogant nightmare, who only really loved himself and was deluding himself into thinking he had the life he deserved.

Not that she tried to speak - as if Thomas would've even listened. He was too busy letting the corners of his mouth twitch up, thinking about how far he'd come - how he'd made it all happen.

"I'm just like this Loser club. I wasn't liked, and I saw horror. But now, I'm a success. And nobody can take that away from me."

Almost as if to stress what he'd said, he wrapped both his arms around C.C. and pulled her frail body onto his lap, almost as if she were a ragdoll. She tried not to flinch or show any discomfort, but being in his "embrace" only made her want to scream. To him she was just a possession, something he'd gotten and was determined to never let go.

He genuinely believed he owned her – he genuinely thought that he deserved having her as he did.

The notion would have made her cry, had she been on her own, but again, with Thomas around it was always best to keep her feelings to herself. Still, the knowledge of what he'd gone through and the view he had of himself only confirmed her worst suspicions – he was an outstandingly disturbed man, and he would not let her go. Not alive, at least.

She was some God-given reward. A retribution for his own fucked up childhood. She was not a person and would never be one, in his eyes. Her desires, her dreams, her opinions… none of those mattered to him. She was his toy, and that was that.

This realisation came as his filthy hands moved to rip open her dress.

"Now you're gonna do your trick to give _me_ my treat!" he said, pushing back both of their trays and rolling them over so he was on top.

And as the awful, terrifying moment – endless and painful, as it always was, started all over again, C.C. felt her heart shatter.

And this time had to be for the last time. She had no heart left to put back together - not when Thomas just kept on forcing her back down, determined to break her any time she tried to build herself back up.

She wasn't strong enough to keep going...

" _Now, wait right there just one moment!"_ the voice shouted, distracting her from where...other things were happening. _"You've come all this way and you're giving in?!"_

" _What else am I supposed to do?!"_ she asked bitterly, letting her thoughts drown out screams and cries of pain. _"I can't keep doing this!"_

" _Not even to survive?!"_ the voice snapped. She didn't think it had ever sounded quite so angry. _"The longer you endure it, the better chance you have of getting out!"_

" _Do I?!"_ C.C. cried out to him. _"How am I supposed to get out of this?! With the police's help?! They couldn't find me when they were here!"_

" _But they didn't stop looking! You know they won't have stopped!"_ the voice argued back. Angrier than ever, at this stage _. "And the fact that you're willing to throw away the hard work they're doing and just give up like it's not worth it makes me wonder if you really are the Babcock I knew!"_

C.C. felt a pain in her heart at that, spreading out over her into panic. What was the voice saying?!

It sounded like-

" _You know damn well what I'm saying. If the Babcock I knew is gone, then there's no point in me being here, is there?"_

But there was a point. There _had_ to be! She'd heard him so that she didn't have to be alone in that place! Was he really just going to leave her there?!

" _I'm not here to help the weak give up."_

C.C. had nothing to say to that, but it wouldn't have mattered if she did - she knew he was gone.

And she was being returned to a violent, cruel, horror of a reality with alarming pace.

It was over. Everything in her life was over.

She had no choice but to give up.

Why bother fighting, when you know you're dead already?

* * *

 **AN: Hello! Sorry for how long this took, but we are both drowning in work. Anyway, DO NOT DESPAIR, we have a lot more in store for out brave, brave Babcock.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 16**

" _It's not beginning to feel a lot like Christmas"_

Christmas was hardly a holiday that year in the mansion - the day rolled around on the calendar with barely a mention of it from anybody. Not that that was surprising – nobody really and truly felt like celebrating.

The three adults only agreed to make anything out of it at all for the children. There might have been a storm cloud the size of an entire state hanging over the house, but they still thought the younger members of the household deserved to get some gifts to mark the occasion.

Well, to mark the fact that another year had nearly come and gone. Again, the holiday itself didn't feel like much of an occasion. There were barely any decorations about (Niles would usually hang them, and he had only put up the tree and the few trinkets he had as an unsuccessful attempt at distracting himself), there was no food prepared (not that anybody felt hungry enough for the usual feast that the butler would have whipped up and Fran would've sneaked bites from), and there were no lavish parties that Mr Sheffield would usually host, full of laughing guests having the time of their lives.

Instead, all the adults were gathered in the quiet living room, barely speaking. They hadn't even put the television or the stereo on, and all were nursing drinks none of them actually felt like finishing.

It was only nine o'clock at night, but it felt as dead in there as the streets outside would be at two in the morning.

Even the children were quiet — the three of them had already gone up to their bedrooms after having eaten the McDonald's take out Fran had bought for them, something which was unheard of at Christmastime. Cheap burgers and chips as replacements for a Christmas feast spoke volumes about the emotional state of the Sheffield household.

None of them remembered a worst Christmas Eve than this one, and if Miss Babcock didn't appear soon, they suspected the heavy feeling of hopelessness would linger.

It had been well over seven months since C.C. had last been seen, and remaining hopeful in trying times such as these was a notoriously difficult feat. They tried to put on a happy face in front of the children (or, rather, they tried to put on a _we-are-coping-well_ kind of expression in front of the children), but it was becoming harder to keep it on.

At least they did not pretend when they were around one another. They didn't need to.

Everybody there could comprehend the pain that everyone else was feeling. And they were all grown enough to have the same terrors running through their heads whenever they imagined it too much.

Not that either Fran or Maxwell brought it up with Niles a lot. No more than they had to, anyway - they already knew that he was plagued by guilt, and had shouldered the burden of both that and finding C.C. like he was Atlas.

They couldn't help but fear that a day would come when he, perhaps at last, would slip, and the sky would all come crashing down around their ears.

They partially considered themselves lucky that it hadn't already. And nothing seemed to have changed in the case, which might set them all on less firm ground.

Not that where they currently were felt like firm ground, anyway. It was more like being hopelessly lost at sea, in a tiny boat with no sails, maps, or instruments to navigate, with the water completely still and no end of day in sight to let the unfortunate mariner see the stars.

They had nowhere to go, things were getting bleaker the longer they sat there, and hope was fading fast.

"I think I'll go to bed," Maxwell said, downing the last of his drink before putting down his empty glass with a thud. "I…I am sorry – you two are free to do as you please."

He gestured between Niles and his fiancée, both of whom felt like doing the exact same thing. There was no point in staying up when there was nothing to celebrate, anyway. The only thing left was to put the children's gifts under the tree and fill their Christmas stockings with candy and other nice treats. Although that task usually fell on Niles, both Maxwell and Fran had offered to do it themselves, but he'd refused.

He needed a distraction – a little respite from the suffocating purgatory he felt his life currently was. It would be…well… nice to do something for the children. Even if he himself couldn't be happy, he was glad they could be. They didn't deserve to have their Christmas ruined on his, Fran's and Mr Sheffield's account.

"I think I'll go to bed too," Fran said, stretching in her seat; her brand new engagement ring glittered in the dying firelight as she did so.

Fran and Maxwell had gotten engaged only a week ago. It had been a fairly muted affair with only a celebratory dinner (during which, thankfully enough, Niles hadn't had to work) to commemorate the happy occasion. Still, Niles was very much aware that both Maxwell and Fran were trying to keep their happiness at bay whenever he was around. Almost as if they did not want to make him uncomfortable or upset.

A small of him felt...appreciative, of the way they were behaving. It really hit home in a moment like that that his friends really did care about him.

They didn't like to see him upset, and that part of him was grateful. The rest of him, however, couldn't help but feeling...somewhat irritated. Resentful, perhaps?

The two sometimes felt very similar in his head, especially when it came to thinking about both Fran and Maxwell walking on eggshells around him all the time. He didn't like to think he was so sensitive that they absolutely had to modify anything they did or said, and as much as they were trying to be good friends by doing so, it didn't come across...well.

He wasn't some sort of child, or a dying invalid who was having all their important decisions made for them. He was a grown adult who could face the facts and allow life - natural life, without any censorship - to go on around him, even in his misery!

He'd had nearly thought about having a go at them for it - snapping that he wasn't so sensitive that he couldn't stand to see real life happening anymore, but the tiny appreciative part held him back.

It was also the infuriatingly sensible part that told him no matter what was going on, he didn't want to hurt his friends.

"Are you comin' up, Niles?"

Fran's question quickly brought Niles out of his reverie. He hadn't been aware he'd be expected to make his choice for a bedtime known.

"I don't think I'll go up just yet, Miss Fine," he said, "I have yet to place the children's gifts under the tree."

Not to mention that he wanted a few moments alone to pour himself yet another glass Mr Sheffield's Bourbon and to pilfer one of his cigars. He'd replace it with a new one soon, but tonight he needed to drown his sorrows in alcohol and smoke.

"Ya sure?" Fran insisted, placing what Niles knew was a supportive hand on his shoulder. "Ya don't have ta do it, Scarecrow. We can do—"

"Please, Miss Fine," Niles interrupted her, trying to hide the slight edge to his voice but failing, "I insist."

He could already see the look of hurt growing on her face, as soon as the words were out. But it was too late to do anything about them.

Fran just simply nodded, clearly trying to keep whatever she felt to herself, and patted his shoulder lightly, "Okay. But if ya need us, ya know where ta find us..."

With that said, she turned, went through to the hallway, and went silently upstairs. Niles watched her go, and knew that he would have to apologise and make it up to her somehow in the morning, but for now the damage was done.

The damage was done, and the guilt was setting in.

That was another thing that the Bourbon was good for. Guilt hardly seemed a problem after he'd had enough of the stuff.

He just had to make sure it was exactly the right amount, otherwise he was in danger of knocking ornaments off the tree...

Though really a sad, under-decorated tree would be just the ticket to really solidifying this whole holiday as a non-Christmas. It had felt wrong ever since the start, so why shouldn't it look wrong as well?

He nearly considered snatching the glass baubles off the tree and throwing them in the trash, smashing them, and leaving the presents in their bags for others to find as they pleased - just doing nothing.

Doing nothing and showing the world that Christmas had been ruined there. There was no point to these little things of joy, if there wasn't enough in their everyday lives to make it worth it...

But then he thought of the children's faces, coming down to their presents in the morning, and how they could either see a hungover butler with no smile and a tree devoid of presents and decorations, or a hungover butler trying his best despite soul crushing hurt, and a decorated tree that had presents beneath it.

He knew which image seemed better.

He knew what he had to do. As miserable and as crushed as he felt, he would be an absolute monster to deprive children of the one thing the holiday could still give to them.

Even if he himself got nothing (he didn't care - not when Miss Babcock was getting worse than nothing, wherever she was), he didn't want to drag innocents down with him. It was bad enough that he'd caught Mr Sheffield and Miss Fine up in what he was feeling!

He was like a whirlpool or a tornado of misery, sucking everything in and leaving nothing but destruction and emptiness, and he had no idea how to stop.

It was even happening as he was supposed to be spreading joy - namely, by gathering together the gifts for all three littler ones, and starting to systematically put them all underneath the tree.

It didn't take away the sadness. He knew nothing could do that. But it did give him something to do, other than just being sad.

And the children truly would adore their gifts! Their faces might even make him crack sort of a smile in the morning...

He'd done his best to choose nice gifts for them. Miss Fine had of course helped out by tagging along when he'd first gone gift-shopping; she'd proved very helpful when it came down to choosing a nice gift for Miss Margaret. The girl was all grown up, and with each passing year he found that getting her a gift was an increasingly difficult task. He didn't know what was in vogue, fashion-wise, nor did he follow any of the trends that were popular among her peers.

Miss Grace's and Master Brighton's gifts hadn't proved difficult to find – the littlest Sheffield was always happy to get a book or stationary, while the boy had a weak spot for comic books and videogames.

He remembered he and Miss Fine had gone on their separate ways after all the gifts had been bought – she'd returned to the mansion while he'd chosen to stay at the shopping centre. He hadn't felt like going back yet. He'd wandered around the place for hours, stopping every once in a while to have coffee or go to the toilet.

Ever since Miss Babcock had been taken, he found it easier to be alone when he was out and about. He found the white noise of background conversation incredibly soothing. At home, the silence could become overwhelming and it sooner or later led to him thinking about Miss Babcock and how much of a pile of shit he was for having caused this nightmarish situation.

He needed to distract his mind, keep himself occupied, so the more time he spent out or doing his appointed tasks (which, as of late, weren't many, given that Mr Sheffield still treated him as if he were made of glass), the better. That's why he hadn't returned from the shopping centre until dinnertime. Hidden in his pocket, however, there had been a little box from Tiffany & Co.

The same box he was currently hiding beneath the tree.

It was, he thought, the most sensible nonsensical purchase he'd ever made in his life. He'd spent his entire Christmas bonus and part of his usually hard-fought-to-keep savings on that one little box, but he hadn't cared at all that he'd done it.

The necklace, comprised of a gold chain and a pendant of a single diamond and pearl, had been worth every cent of that money. As soon as he'd seen it, he knew it would look perfect on Miss Babcock, and eventually, he hadn't been able to stand the idea of anybody else buying it. He didn't care if she never forgave him - this wasn't a weaselling attempt to get back in anybody's good books - he just wanted her to have something as beautiful as that necklace.

As beautiful as she was...

He'd had to get it. He just hadn't been able to stand the thought of anybody else having it.

As far as he was concerned, that necklace belonged to only one person in the entire world, and it didn't matter where she was. Her necklace would be waiting for her, no matter how long it took for her to come home.

Just like he would be.

* * *

Since his divorce, Christmas had never been a cheerful time for Stewart. Per his divorce agreement with B.B., his children were to spend Christmas with her and New Years with him. The first few years had been the hardest – he'd gone from throwing lavish soirees to celebrate the holidays as a family, to spending Christmas on his own, in a huge, lonely house.

It had depressed him greatly, not having anyone to share in the cheer and joy of the holiday season. He'd missed the excitement of early Christmas mornings, where his children would race to the living room, where their gifts would be waiting underneath the tree. He'd continued to buy them Christmas gifts after the divorce, but it simply wasn't the same.

Christmas hadn't gotten any better when his children had grown up and gone to college. As a matter of fact, it had worsened, because B.B. and the kids would always go on vacation, leaving him behind in NYC to celebrate Christmas on his own. They'd visit him sometimes, but the older they'd gotten, the less he'd seen them.

Back when he'd first rekindled his relationship with his youngest daughter, he'd been hopeful about being able to spend more time around C.C. and Noel, but they'd all gone back to their old ways, and the best they got from each other was a Christmas card and maybe a posted present.

Still, he'd dreamt about being able to spend the holidays with his family for years on end…

Who would have ever imagined that the year he finally got to spend Christmas Eve with them, would be the worst one yet.

He'd tried to eat to encourage B.B. to follow suit, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to have much. Certainly not the grand feast that the servants had prepared, as per his instructions from back when he'd still been enthralled by visions of a magical celebration, with champagne flowing, fires crackling as presents were opened, and booming laughter filling a house which no longer seemed so big and empty.

Somehow, it seemed to grow even bigger around the three of them, sat there nursing after-dinner drinks, with nobody talking. Only one fire in the house was going, and that was the one they were sat by.

That only added to how dark and cold it seemed. But, obviously, heating and lighting in the place wasn't first and foremost in their minds.

Stewart thought he'd willingly give up all the wealth and status he had, and all the holidays he'd ever had or wished for, to live in a cave that was colder and darker and infinitely more damp than the house, all in exchange for C.C.'s safe return to them.

What was the point of having a warm, luxurious home, with a holiday meal fit for a king on it, if one of the seats at the table was empty?

They hadn't bothered to get presents for each other – they knew the best present they could ever get was not something that could be bought in a store, and neither Stewart, B.B. or Noel had felt like feeling the emptiness with cheap baubles.

The best they could do to bear the emptiness was spend some time together, just relishing in each other's company and thinking about the one person they'd give everything they had to be able to see her again.

* * *

 _Knock Knock_

"Chris? Are you okay?"

Lane was startled by the sudden knock on her office's door and her husband's voice coming from behind it. She looked over at the small digital clock she kept atop her desk – it read 11:30 p.m., only half an hour left until Christmas…

Had it really been that long? The las time she'd looked at the clock it had read only 6:00 p.m. …

She looked down at the scattered paperwork that covered almost every inch of her desk and frowned – she'd gone over each and every document countless of times, and still nothing there had seemed to be of any help to get Miss Babcock back home.

But how could it not? How could it all lead to so many dead ends...?! It didn't make any sense that they were turning up with nothing, when an answer had to be so close!

Wiping her eyes tiredly and leaning back in her chair, she only heard her husband, Felix, open the door and come into the room. His footsteps were slow, and carefully measured – even before he spoke, she could tell he was worried.

"You've been working all day, hon," he said quietly. And there was the concern again. "Is everything alright in here?"

"Yeah..." she sighed in return, before letting her arm fall away from her face, giving up any bad pretence, and deciding to just tell her husband the truth. "No. No, it's not...it's really, really not..."

She had, briefly, considered just keeping up the lie even though it was obvious that she was upset. But she just couldn't do it – she was too tired, she needed a release somewhere, and her husband had asked.

If she could share any of her frustrations on anything, anywhere, it was with him, in the safety and comfort of their home.

 _Home_. A place she feared Miss Babcock would never be, if she didn't do something!

Felix rounded the corner of her desk, coming to lean on it next to where she had returned to staring forlornly at all the information there.

How could she not just...piece any of it together?! Any idiot could probably throw together two of the pages at random and point out who did it, just from that!

"Is something in particular bothering you about this case?" her husband asked, reaching out and slowly stroking her back. "You're normally fantastic with the details, and when to put them down for a while - it's not every day you're in here up until this hour..."

He was stating the obvious, but Lane knew there was a point buried in it. She didn't normally neglect herself over cases, even in little ways like coming to bed late.

She really wasn't alright. But if only it were something as simple as one detail keeping her up!

But it wasn't just one detail. It was all of it.

If it had been one thing, she might've set it aside for a little while, gone and taken a break to try and recharge her batteries and just...done something else for a little while, before she went insane!

It was Christmas Eve...how the hell had it been so long?! How had they not found proof? Or sufficient evidence to do more than they already had?

They needed to do more than they had. Miss Babcock was out there, suffering right that second, and she needed them to be on their toes and find that one miracle piece that would push the case forward!

She needed to find that miracle piece. She owed it to an innocent woman who deserved to get out of the nightmare she was trapped in.

That was why Lane could only shake her head at Felix's words, "I can't put it down...there's too much riding on me looking at it until I'm blue in the face."

Felix hummed thoughtfully, frowning and slowing the movement of his hand.

"You're already lookin' pretty blue to me, champ..."

Lane bit the inside of her lip. She didn't know what she'd expected; of course her husband would know when a case was getting her down. He always did, and this time he was probably seeing even more of it because this case had to be the worst one she'd ever dealt with.

She didn't often like to admit to herself how bad she found some cases. It was part of the job. Or, at least, that's what she'd tell herself when things were getting tough. But this was going beyond that.

This was becoming impossible. And as much as Lane knew she was fighting to try and see a way out, or a way around to get the information they needed, she just...she didn't know if she could.

And that both terrified and guilted her in equal measure.

"I'm not blue enough," she replied, a hint of firmness in her tone. "An innocent woman is out there suffering, and it's up to me to get her out. All I have is this, and I have to look at it until I figure something out!"

There was a moment of silence then and Lane soon felt her husband wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her to him. She didn't try to resist it, either – she knew better than that. Instead, she nestled into her husband, relishing in his warm, steadfast comfort.

She wasn't oversentimental (as a matter of fact, Felix was the soft one in the relationship) but she couldn't help a few tears gathering in the corner of her eyes.

"I know you want to solve this, honey," he said in a soft, soothing voice – the type he'd always use with their kid when they'd been young and were sad or upset. "But there is so much you can do from your position. You are not Superwoman, even if you are the closest thing to it in this entire world."

Lane released a teary chuckle. She still felt like shit, but even in the worst situations her hubby managed to draw a smile out of her. That's one of the reasons she'd fallen in love with him back when they'd first met. They'd actually first seen each other when Felix had been hired by her father to fix a leakage in their home. She'd been but a young trainee at the time, and somehow the young contractor had caught her attention.

She remembered (shamefully, really) that she'd intentionally tweaked with stuff around the house so her dad would have to call the contractor and she'd get to see him again, but her dad had eventually picked up on what she was doing and given her an ultimatum – either act like the big girl she was and ask him out, or pay back every penny she'd made him spend.

She'd made the right choice. She hadn't given her father back any of the money, but she had given him a son-in-law.

It hadn't been long before they'd given him grandchildren, either. And that had made up for her almost breaking the toilet a thousand times over.

Life had been good to them, as a couple and as a family. There wasn't anything Lane would change about what they'd been given, or anything she felt needed correcting around the life their family had...

It was the kind of life Miss Babcock deserved to be having, right at that moment. A warm home, a loving family, and a supportive husband with his arms around her, right then and there...

But she didn't have any of those, and they all seemed as far off a miracle as the miracle of the first Christmas, well over a thousand years before!

If only she could get her own miracle...find something that turned it all around...

But she wasn't sure she could do it. After so many years in policing, she really wasn't sure she could do it this time...

And that was too much for her heart - or her overwhelmed eyes - to bear. The tears broke out and so did the sobs, muffled and wetting her husband's shirt, which she felt herself being pulled more firmly to.

"Hey, hey...!" he soothed, his hand going for her back and stroking her hair again. "Come on, now...it's alright...you're gonna get this..."

"But...what happens...what happens if I don't?!" she clutched at him, never wanting to let go. "I can't let this woman down! Her family! They're all counting on me...!"

"They're not counting on you by yourself," Felix corrected her gently. "They're counting on the police. A team, working shifts and taking turns when need be. That's not just you by yourself, honey..."

Part of Lane knew he was right, but the guilt-ridden part wanted to keep on arguing.

"But...I'm in charge of this...!"

"But you count on your men to follow your orders, right?"

Her husband's question nearly threw her, but she managed to nod, after she'd let it run through her head.

"Yeah..."

Felix's hands went to rub at her shoulders and upper arms, "And they so exactly what they should be doing, even when you're not there to see?"

That was one thing Lane had never had to worry about in her time. She picked only the top candidates for her department, with the highest levels of professionalism. They knew that too much was at stake, in the cases that they covered.

They...they really did never let her down. Even when she wasn't there, keeping an eye on them...

Lane sniffed, "I...I suppose so..."

"Well then, your team can be the ones to take the work home with them for a little while. Even team leaders need to take a break sometimes," her husband said. Even in his comforting way, he was being just as firm as she'd tried to be earlier, when she'd just wanted to keep on staring at all those documents. "And I'm not going to let you sit here and get any bluer over this..."

As he said that, he encouraged her to help him get her on her feet.

Lane was too exhausted to do anything apart from comply. Whether she could do it, or couldn't do it, she had no idea in that moment. Her guilt was hurting like a knife in the chest, but the words and the pictures on the documents were blurry as she tried to glance at them once more, just before Felix led her out of the office.

He snapped off the light as they went, and that was that. She couldn't work anymore that night, and would probably soon be asleep in her own bed, and feel...different in the morning.

She could only hope she'd feel refreshed, and ready to return to the case. She wasn't going to drop it just because of this.

She needed a break, maybe, but Miss Babcock needed someone to save her.

And even if it didn't end up being a Christmas miracle, Lane was determined to see her get one.

* * *

The water trickling down the dirty dishes had an almost hypnotising trait to it. C.C. often found herself staring at the warm liquid washing out the remains of food and drink and thinking about absolutely nothing.

She didn't like being in her own head. Not anymore. It wasn't a pretty place to be in, given her situation.

Ever since Halloween, C.C. had forced herself into a near-constant state of mental-blankness. She kept herself occupied working around the house as hard as she possibly could, and when she was in her cellar, she simply turned off her light and lay in the darkness, eyes closed as she listened to music. It was the only thing that drowned out the bad memories down there. If she wasn't careful, they played out in her head over and over again, in an endless loop.

 _Numbness_ – heavenly relief for a tortured soul.

She had tried imagining other ways to make herself permanently numb, too.

But none of those plans had ever managed to get off the ground. She didn't have anything to tie a noose, for one thing. Swallowing the bleach she cleaned the bathroom with sounded like there could be too many problems if it went wrong. Same thing when for cutting her wrists with one of the few sharp objects...the bastard... allowed her to be around.

She wished she had access to the medicine cabinet, for more painkillers than a person would ever need. But that was kept under lock and key – probably to prevent her from stealing relief from injuries.

She didn't want relief from injuries. She wanted relief from it all.

But she didn't have that. She had no way of completing an otherwise simple and desired plan. So, laying there in the dark, listening to music and imagining that it had all ended already was the next best thing.

The next best numbness, for someone who had given up living.

 _Life is but a dream, they said..._

But she knew they were wrong. Life like this was a nightmare, not a dream, and she wanted it to end. She'd reached her breaking point – she couldn't stand another beating, another scream, another... _event_.

She wanted out. Like when you are on a merry-go-round and it's spinning too fast and you just want to call it quits and run back to your mama.

She seldom thought about her own Mama. Or her Papa. Or Niles.

Or the woman she'd once been before someone had stomped the life out of her.

"Claire?"

A shiver ran down her spine when she heard his slimy voice coming from the kitchen door – was it time already? Time to go upstairs? Time to go to the one place where numbness seemed to evade her?

The thought of what would obviously happen was enough for C.C. to stop scrubbing one of the many pots she'd used to prepare the Christmas feast Thomas had wanted. Roasted lamb, beef wellington, Christmas ham – she'd slaved away in the kitchen for hours on end to prepare everything that he'd wanted. Luckily, her hard work had been worth it, since the night had transpired with no beatings of even screaming.

To a certain (and very sick) extent, it had actually been a somewhat pleasant evening. She'd been allowed to eat as much as she'd wanted, they'd watched a movie ("The Nightmare Before Christmas", one of her personal favourites) and he'd even let her go into the backyard for two minutes in order to touch the snow.

But he wouldn't be doing that again, would he? He'd be expecting his _something in return_ now, and she'd once again have no place to go to stop herself from feeling...

He stood in the doorway like he was blocking it when he got there _. Oh, God_ , had he decided to...to...do it right there...?

But he didn't move forward, like he was intending to rip off her dress...he was just leaning there with a smile on his face...

"I will be spending Christmas and New Years with my family this year," he declared. "I'll be going to Boston for about a week, and you will stay here, locked in your cellar."

C.C. nearly felt her knees give out from underneath her, and a cry nearly escaped her lips. But she held it in, not wanting him to see any little amount of joy her body might automatically express at him being nowhere near her for that amount of time.

Holding it in also meant that she got distracted from thoughts of her own family, and the fact that she wouldn't be spending Christmas with any of them.

Thomas continued before she had to elongate the thought, stopping ideas about delicious food and drink she could help herself to, and laughter, and warmth-

"You will be left food. Don't waste it, because it will have to last you until I come back," he said, his smile disappearing at the thought of her obviously wasting anything. "Now, that being said and considering it's Christmas Eve, you can have two gifts. Ask for them, and then we're going upstairs, where I'm going to take my gift from you."

The thought of it almost made C.C. freeze entirely, to the point where words were beyond her.

So, he was still planning on...it...but only once she'd picked what she wanted...

She knew one of the things she wanted. It wasn't anything material, as such - she knew Thomas didn't like buying her much in that regard, if he hadn't seen it, approved, and picked it out for her.

But she couldn't make him mad by leaving the answer too long, either; it'd be worse for her in the long run.

She was never allowed to touch the indoor pool. But she needed the feeling of being underwater, and weightlessness, and the world fading away into somewhere else while she got to be free for a little while...

And she was going to get it.

"I...can I swim in the pool?" her voice was broken, just as much as her spirit and her body, but she got the words out.

She thought for a split second that he might say no, and order her to either choose something else, or revoke his offer entirely and force her into giving him his "gift" instead.

But he didn't. He simply nodded his head.

"The indoor pool, got it."

C.C. almost couldn't believe her luck. He was in a good mood, clearly – otherwise he wouldn't be talking to her as if she were an actual human being and not a stray dog he'd reluctantly taken in.

Maybe this was his own version of the Christmas spirit...

"Thank you si–"

"You'll only have half an hour," he interrupted her, pointing a warning finger at her and his voice taking a slightly steely edge to it. "You'll be able to splash around while I have my brandy and smoke a cigar, so I don't want any tantrums when I ask you to come out. Is it clear?"

C.C. nodded mechanically – complaining was something she no longer even thought about, but he still insisted on reminding her that she was not to be rebellious in any shape or form.

"You'll have to swim in your underwear," he added, "I haven't got any swimsuits to give you. Get a towel from upstairs and have fun."

C.C. would have thought that she didn't find anything fun anymore, if it weren't for the fact that Thomas turning around and just walking away had taken precedence in her mind.

He...he wasn't even going to watch her? Either to make sure she stayed there, or out of sick personal gain...?

He didn't trust her. He must've known he'd broken her enough that she wasn't going to try anything, not even while he was gone...

Hence the Boston trip. He wouldn't have gone if he thought she might try and use the opportunity to get out...

But she could still get out, a voice unlike the one that had left her reminded. She could go. Just not in the way that Thomas would be expecting...

A pool meant a lot of water. More than enough to drown a person...

She could escape, then. Let the unfeeling water surround her and drag her down, and keep her there until she had no more air in her lungs, and then a body she no longer inhabited would float back up to the surface.

And then she'd be numb forever, just like she wanted...

That thought was what finally got her moving. She knew how precious time was for Thomas, and when he said he'd only give her half an hour, he really meant half an hour.

It was more than enough time, at any rate. She needed but a few minutes and she'd be free of it all while he'd have to deal with a dead body – a testament to his cruelty. Part of her hoped he'd dispose of it somewhere it could be found, so that her family would be able to have some closure, but she very much doubted it.

Thomas was meticulous and left no loose ends. A dead body was nothing but a liability. A problem.

Good. He deserved to sweat a little.

Soon enough, C.C. had gotten herself a towel and was rushing into Thomas' indoor pool, barefoot and wearing only her underwear. She seldom visited the indoors pool, but the few times she had (which had been to clean) she had been... charmed by it, she supposed. The pool was located in a second basement, which could only be accessed through a door in his office. He'd kept it locked during the first few weeks she'd started going upstairs, but as of late she'd found out that he kept most doors open, even when she was upstairs.

She could definitely think of worse places to end it all.

The lighting around it was low, and that, combined with the warmth in the air, practically begged her to close her eyes. The black ceiling only joined in on it, as a sprinkling of tiny lights, placed as though tossed by a farmer spreading seeds on a field, gave the impression of a beautiful, endless night.

The only thing keeping her from feeling completely sleepy in that place was the cool stone flooring below her feet. But even that had a warm, cream colour to it. It mixed perfectly with the blue-green of the long pool - soon to be the last place she'd ever know, or feel, or think about.

She left her towel on a stone step by the door. She wouldn't be needing it.

She was about to be asleep. And the last thing she'd see before she slipped beneath the surface would be an open sky.

In her final moments, she'd at least get the impression of feeling free.

She was only a jump away from freedom.

And although she was in no rush, she still felt herself eagerly perching on the edge of the pool. She looked around the last room she'd ever see and took a deep, confidence-building breath. It was a nice place to die, especially since it would be in her own terms and not Thomas'.

This was the ultimate rebellion. It tasted like honeysuckle mixed with ginger. _Bittersweet_.

C.C. felt herself smiling — she liked this poetic bullshit. It helped her swallow the lie that she'd told herself: that everything would be better afterwards.

There was no better, really. Only nothingness and, perhaps, a long, endless tunnel. She used to be a believer, before any of this crap had happened to her, but she was not sure anymore.

And if, indeed, there was something beyond the threshold of death, then she doubted she'd be invited into eternal glory. But that was fine by her – as long as she could rest, she could spend eternity asleep in the dark for all she cared.

 _Time to take the leap._

Gathering the last of her strength, C.C. leapt into the pool, eyes closed and heart thumping in her chest.

The water enveloped her in a freezing embrace and, for just a moment, there was silence. Silence and peace.

Time seemed to grind to a halt the moment her frail body was suspended in the water. It almost felt as if her soul had already embarked on its next adventure. She felt light; ethereal, even.

Whoever said death was a gruesome affair?

She kept her eyes shut tight; she wasn't sure if she'd be able to go through with her plan if she allowed herself to take yet another glimpse at the world she was leaving behind. But what she did allow herself, was thinking about her loved ones one last time.

She'd miss them all, but she hoped they'd understand. She'd fought and given one hell of a fight, but she was tired. She needed to rest.

Stewart, B.B., Noel, Maxwell, Nanny Fine, little Chester...

She kissed them goodbye as the thought of each one of them crossed her mind.

She held her breath as she did so, and when she at last came to the last person on her list, she let the little air that still remained in her lungs go. She knew what the next step was, and the moment water flowed into her lungs, it was game over.

Still, she clung to her last few moments of life as Niles' image blossomed in her mind. She hadn't forgotten what he looked like. She missed his lopsided grin of his... and the way his bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief whenever he thought up some zinger or witty remark.

It hurt in her hear to know that she'd never hear another one.

Because she hadn't forgotten how he sounded like, either, even if the voice in her head had abandoned her so long ago now.

The thought of what it had said still stung. She hadn't been able to bear being left alone in Hell, not when she'd come to depend on this imaginary voice to bear the abuse.

And yet...

Deep down she knew that everything it had said was true. She'd given up. She was done for, and she did not blame him for not sticking around to see her waste away.

With that (and probably because her body simply needed oxygen that it wasn't going to get) she breathed in, and welcomed fate.

It was agony, really, the moment water flooded into her lungs. The need for air was agonising, and yet she had no strength to swim back to the surface.

This was it.

She was...God... she was surrendering, wasn't she?

Just like the voice had said she would...

What happened next was something that would puzzle C.C. for years to come. She'd never fully understand why or how, but just as she was about to die, she realised she wanted to live.

Maybe it was the thought of letting him down.

Maybe it was the realisation that this would be the ultimate surrender.

Maybe it was the fact that she knew her parents would never have peace if she left like this.

Maybe it was because her soul was not ready to go and wished to spare herself an eternity in the dark.

But she was determined to live.

She wasn't going down. Not like this.

If she was to die, then it would be fighting. Fighting to go home.

She was going to escape.

And the first step was getting out of the pool.

So, with whatever strength she could muster and with all the willpower she had left in her body, she pushed and kicked and pulled, scrambling and not letting herself flail in nothingness but struggling ever-upward towards the light.

She wasn't going to stay down in the darkness anymore.

That first breath of air, gasped in through spluttering and retching and the taste and heavy, nauseating feel of chlorine in her system, was like pulling herself free from chains.

Pulling herself out of the pool took more effort than she knew she could muster, and she started to vomit up water as she crawled away from her attempt at ending it all, before collapsing not three feet away.

And none of it went unheard.

Thomas could hear the coughing and spluttering, and the sound of splatters hitting stone from the other room.

Wondering what the hell the bitch could possibly have done, he put down his brandy and cigar (it would've probably tasted better after fucking her until he thought he'd be spent for weeks, but he didn't feel like waiting for it this year) and got up to go investigate.

If he found a mess in there, he swore to God that she'd pay for it. Not today – not while it was Christmas – but soon.

What he found when he looked into the room nearly made his stomach drop into its own special abyss.

Claire was on her stomach on the floor, her face bright red from wheezing, and a trail of water coming from her mouth.

It didn't take a genius to notice what it looked like. She'd clearly just almost drowned.

Thomas felt a strange mix of panic and shock course through his body. Claire had almost drowned, there in the pool! And he wouldn't have known a thing about it for twenty minutes!

Jesus Christ, she looked weak – she couldn't even stand up!

He knew he shouldn't have left her alone. Even if she was broken, anything could've happened while she was out of his line of sight!

She could've died, right there! He wouldn't have even known about it until he'd come to get her!

He'd just nearly lost the prize he'd worked so hard for, to a pool full of fucking water!

He hurried over immediately, slamming his hand into her back to help release the water trapped in her lungs.

She spat up more, and he recoiled away from the disgusting liquid as it splashed down and outwards over the stones.

"What happened?!" he cried out, almost leaping out of the way before the water touched his foot.

But she didn't answer. She could only retch more, and gasp and wheeze as the water gargled in her lungs and made her vomit more.

After a few more smacks (from different angles – there was no way he was going to put his feet anywhere near the bile that was coming from her mouth), she was breathing enough to answer his question.

"I...f-fainted...in the pool," she explained, gulping down air like she was a prisoner on Death Row and oxygen was her last meal. "Nearly drowned."

Having her confirm it only made his sense of panic mount. How could she let herself almost die like that?! It'd taken this much out of her already; she could've been killed if she'd been in there any longer!

He wasn't going to fuck her tonight, that was for sure. What she'd been through was dangerous, and he'd already come so close to nearly having a dead body to deal with! He hadn't planned a site to dump her corpse; the police would be onto him like a shot if he improvised!

His whole plan would've been ruined! Where would he find a replacement wife in such short notice?! He'd spent so long breaking this one, he didn't have time to prepare anybody else!

Had it not been for the fact that she'd almost died, he would've snapped that her answer was obvious and that, unlike her, he wasn't stupid.

But he didn't. She looked a weak and pathetic sight enough as it was, practically crawling around on the floor, and it was Christmas. He had the rest of their lives to break her down whenever he wanted (and she'd deserve a correction for being a stupid whore who'd nearly cost him all his time, effort and preparation), but she could have this holiday.

And maybe Easter. But the rest of the holidays were his, and he'd treat her how he wanted on them.

But for now, she had to get some rest. Hers had been a close call, and he'd rather she recovered than taking her and risk causing her any more grievous injuries. A dead wife was no good, so he had to take care of the one he'd built for himself.

He had to admit that, despite this latest mishap, she'd been behaving impeccably. No burnt dinners, no complaints, no dirty clothes or surfaces...

It looked like she'd finally learnt her place, and for that she deserved leniency.

"You are going straight to bed," he said, briefly leaving her side to get her towel, which he then proceeded to wrap around her before picking her up in his arms. "That's enough excitement for one night."

C.C. stiffened at the contact, but she could hear the words and...well, part of her obviously didn't believe them. She had no reason on Earth to trust in a single thing that he said to her!

But, as he carried her back up through the house, he didn't turn to go upstairs. Or to the living room. He didn't even throw her down and...take advantage of her weakened state...on the sofa in his den, just before the door to her cell...

Instead, he carried her back through the secret hatch, carefully got her down the ladder, and brought her over to her mattress before throwing a warm blanket over her.

He really had meant it when he'd said that there would be no more "excitement". At least, there would be none for him. In her case, there would be relief.

And she was going to use it to her advantage. From here, in the quiet of her room, she got the chance to focus.

She had an escape plan to start. And, seeing as she had gotten away with a lie by telling Thomas that she'd fainted, she thought she might be able to risk another one...

If she was gonna get out of there, she'd need to know where she was and how to get home from there, for a start. If the stupid bastard had fallen for what she'd done so far, he might not see anything wrong in her asking for her second Christmas present...

So, making herself seem even fainter than before, getting her words to slur a little and half-closing her eyes, she looked up at him as though she were half-pleading.

"Tho...um, can I...can I have a local map, and one of New York...for Christmas...? I really like...urban geography..."

She wasn't fully sure where the whole "urban geography" thing had come from. At that split-second moment in time, it'd probably sounded good.

But she held her position exactly where she was – if she did anything to suggest that that was improv, he'd probably be onto her in a second.

But Thomas was confused, if nothing else.

Why the hell was she going on about her fucking gifts now? She'd almost died in there, why the hell did it even matter to her what she was getting, or talking about her hobbies (as dumb as that one in particular sounded)?!

Had she missed out on so much oxygen that it'd made her delirious? That seemed the only reasonable explanation for what he was seeing...

Well, perhaps he could humour her for that – and he _had_ said that she'd deserved some kind of recognition for behaving herself...

There wasn't any harm in it.

"You want maps?" he asked, before nodding. "Alright, I'll get you maps before I go tomorrow. You just rest, and be prepared to make up for everything I missed out on when I'm back from Boston."

With that said, he stood upright again, turned, and left her there in her cell.

C.C. didn't dare drop the front until she'd heard the latch on the trapdoor locking, at which point she let the start of a smile creep onto her face.

She was still afraid of what was to come, obviously. She couldn't get away from all of the pain that Thomas would cause her before she managed to get out of there. But this was a start, and her plan was in motion.

And she was going to see it through, or die trying.

Just like her old self would have done.


	18. Chapter 18

_**Chapter 17**_

" _Break for Freedom"_

The wind was screaming banshee-style right outside the windows, battering the house, the neighbourhood, the whole entire city with the most violent snowstorm that'd been seen in years.

It sounded inviting, compared to Thomas' drunken snoring. He always had one too many on Friday evenings because he knew she'd make him a hangover breakfast the next morning if she didn't want to get dragged by the hair to the kitchen and then be forced to do it.

Not that she wasn't still forced into... _the other thing_...whether he was drunk or sober. Now that she'd spent a few months sleeping upstairs, it had been harder to tell when Thomas would...

C.C. shuddered – she really didn't want to think about it.

He'd been true to his word about her having to make up for the "lost time" after he'd come back from Boston, and the last two weeks had been particularly difficult to bear, given Thomas' mood. She rolled over, away from him and his infernal snoring. She needed to think a little clearer, about anything other than that.

A good option to do just that was to think about her escape plan.

She'd been working on it since Thomas had given her the maps the morning he'd left for Boston. Finding a route home had been the easy part, but the real challenge had been coming up with a plan to slip out of the home unnoticed. It hadn't been an easy task, but as days had gone by a clear idea had begun to form in her head.

Ever since she'd begun sleeping upstairs, C.C. had learnt that Thomas locked every door and window in the house, except those of his bedroom, walk-in-closet, and en-suite bathroom, should any of them need to make a quick trip to the toilet or get some water from the kitchen (he locked the pantry, too, and kept a detailed inventory of the food he kept in his fridge, so C.C. had never been able to pilfer some extra food during the night). Thus, the idea to leave through the backdoor while he slept had gone out the window, but she had not discarded the option to leave through one of his bedroom windows. More specifically, through the small window in his walk-in closet, through which she could access the slanted roof of Thomas' covered entrance porch.

The more she'd studied her limited options, the clearer it had become that said window was her only way out, even if leaving through it would mean she'd have to jump off the roof and onto the garden.

So it had been decided – she was to jump off the roof.

She'd been waiting for the perfect opportunity to put her plan in action. Clearly, C.C. realised, glancing over at the ajar door to Thomas' walk-in-closet, that this was it. The time to make a break for it had finally come around.

She knew that, to a certain extent, it was insane to even think about carrying out an escape that night. The weather outside could probably kill her if she hung around in it for too long! But at the same time as thinking it, her heart screamed that she'd rather die due to a brutal storm than stay and let herself be killed by him.

The heart, having been shattered and broken so many times, just couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't take it anymore. Not another beating. Not another chore. Not another instant of being called "wife" to a man she'd never married!

It was time to leave Thomas, before he even knew about it.

It was time to go home.

Slipping out of bed, she padded quickly and quietly (she'd taken Thomas' passing out on Friday nights after...each time...and used it as time to memorise creaks and groans in the floorboards) made her way to the walk-in wardrobe, closing the door between it and the bedroom as she went. She rarely went into his closet as it was (except to put away his clothes after she'd washed and ironed them) and usually tried not to touch his clothes too much, but it soon dawned on her that perhaps today she needed to take some of them with her – otherwise she didn't think she'd survive the blizzard. She quickly took one of his warmer coats and a pair of boots that would be suitable for trudging through snow like the stuff falling outside and got them on quickly over her night things before hurrying silently over to where Thomas had left his discarded his pants.

Every Friday, like clockwork, he would come home, have dinner and then get into his pyjamas before getting blind drunk. He'd usually discard of his clothes in his closet and have her pick them up the following morning (or, if he felt like it, that very same night after he'd finished having his way with her). It was exactly due to having had to pick up after him on countless occasions that she'd learned that he usually left some loose change (the one he hadn't used during the day) in his pants' pockets. It was never much, but it would be enough for her to escape. Sometimes, he taunted her with it when he came back, about how it was all his and she'd never have any of her own again. How she'd always have to rely on him for everything...

There was some kind of dramatic irony about that, as C.C. rummaged through the pockets and grabbed the fifty dollars he had stored in there, putting it away in her own jacket before heading to the room's window.

The storm wasn't showing any signs of letting up. It could mean death, if she tripped and fell and hit her head...

But somewhere out there, she also had a place she belonged and loved ones to go to. And the thought of getting even just a little bit of the way felt a thousand times better in her mind than staying where she was to suffer until her body just gave in.

She doubted there would be taxis roaming the streets in this weather, but she still needed cash to pay for his ferry ticket.

She still remembered how shocked she'd been when she'd learned that Thomas had actually taken her to another state. She'd never really asked him where he lived (not that she thought he'd have answered, even if she'd asked) and she'd discovered her location almost by accident – she'd seen his address written on a postcard his sister had sent him a few weeks ago. Naturally, being in Jersey presented her with a huge challenge – she had to cross the Hudson River if she wanted to go back home, and the quickest way of doing so was by ferry.

Another step in her plan had been actually locating his house on the maps he'd gifted her on Christmas – she still couldn't believe he'd swallowed the bare-faced lie of her having _"developed an interest in urban geography"._

Luckily for her, she'd found out his house was only a twenty-minute walk from the new ferry terminal at Port Imperial, which had been inaugurated only two months before she'd been taken. Had she had to walk all the way to Hoboken, she wasn't sure she'd have made it, considering it was forty minutes away. Given the blizzard raging outside, C.C. suspected it would probably take her a little longer to get to Port Imperial, but she trusted in her ability to make it there safely.

However, for that to even happen, she had to get moving.

Taking a deep breath, she threw the window open and was immediately met by howling wind and a rush of freezing air. Stiffening with sudden worry, she checked back over her shoulder.

There was nothing but snoring from the other side of the door. The bastard was sleeping, still. All the bottles he'd drained dry that night combined had been powerful enough for him to not feel a thing...

She thanked God for it, steeled herself for what she had to do next, and climbed out of the window, onto the roof of the porch.

The wind and the snow it brought bit at her skin, but she'd made her choice and there was no going back. She didn't want to go back...

She pushed the window closed as much as she could and then braced herself for the next step in her plan.

There was only one way down from where she was. And she intended to roll it.

So, selecting what looked from where she was like the deepest snowbank in the yard, C.C. tucked herself up as best she could and forced herself to roll downwards.

It might have cushioned her fall a little, but the snow couldn't stop C.C. from landing on her wrist with a painful crunch, sending it throbbing immediately as the storm luckily did her a solid and drowned out her cries of agony and the few muttered curse words she gave as she picked herself up, winded and hurting, from the ground.

She'd broken it, that was for certain. She couldn't really move it, as it was, and the pain was nearly indescribable. She had to get to a hospital. Soon. Maybe it would be the smartest choice, going straight to a hospital. She'd be able to call her family from one and they'd be able to fix her wrist before too long.

She just had to get to the ferry and then it would all be smooth sailing. She'd had to walk all the way back, given that there probably wouldn't be any taxis driving around the New York City either, but she trusted in her ability to hold out until she'd gotten some much needed help.

She'd probably have to push herself, if she wanted to get back home, but her freedom was worth the effort – going back to her family and to Niles was worth the effort.

" _Come on, Babs,"_ a very familiar and much-missed imaginary voice cut in, almost as if giving her the little nudge she needed to begin her perilous journey back to safety, _"Get those big feet moving, or the Yeti hunters will get ya!"_

In spite of her pain and in spite of the difficult situation that lay ahead, C.C. couldn't help but stop in her tracks, her face curling into a beaming smile and an overwhelming warmth and surge of happiness taking over her entire body.

A tear or two starting to run down her cheeks, as well; she couldn't believe it...!

The voice was back, and it was like seeing a loved one return home from war. And come back in, when both parties were ready to apologise. And get home after a long day at work. It was relief, and love, and a sense of completion all at once...

She sniffed as best she could, trying not to let the tears blur her vision. She had thought it would never come back, after their "argument"! But she'd obviously been wrong, and things had to be going right again if he was back in her head!

It seemed her mind still had some surprises in store for her...!

She'd thought she'd been abandoned to the fate he'd left her in, on Halloween...all because she hadn't thought she could go on anymore...

"I...I thought you'd left," she said, trying not to let her voice shake as she started to walk again. "That I wasn't...the strong woman you thought I was..."

If a disembodied voice that only came from her head could sound ashamed, or guilty, or like it wanted the ground to swallow it whole, then that's how the voice sounded when it next spoke.

" _I'm sorry. It was an awful thing of me, to just up and leave like that. I just got so scared...I was worried about you, and I didn't like to see what you were doing to yourself by giving in like that. But it isn't any excuse. I just…I had no intention of coming across as harsh, or even to...to leave you there, when you needed me – I only wanted you to keep on surviving, no matter what happened."_

Well, she thought she could forgive him for wanting what was best for her, and for trying to help her survive. That was what she was doing now. No. She was doing something much, much better than just surviving – she was escaping, so that she could get her life back.

And then she'd really be living, for the first time in so long...

That thought felt good. Like she'd been granted a reprieve for a crime she hadn't committed, and she was at last being allowed to go back into society.

" _Relatable criminal analogies eh, Babs?_ _I always knew you had that kind of villainous streak in you..."_ the voice seemed to be openly smirking now, clearly wanting to get back on track after having to be so open.

It was just like old times, again. And she'd need the practice before she saw Niles again...

Besides, it would be a good distraction from her pain the further away from the house she walked, leaving it behind her in a flurry of wind-driven snow.

" _Shut up, Brillo Pad, I need to focus,"_ she replied to the voice in her head, squinting her eyes at the street sign on the corner – it read Hamilton Avenue, just the street she was looking for! She remembered seeing on the map that she had to go all the way up Hamilton Avenue, skirting Hamilton Park until she reached Kennedy Boulevard. Afterwards, she had to keep walking straight until she arrived at the interjection of Liberty Place and Kennedy Boulevard. There she had to turn right, towards a long staircase that would allow her to cross the width of the park.

If she recalled correctly, she'd then emerge on Perishing Road, which she had to walk down until she'd reached the intersection with the Avenue at Port Imperial, where she had to make a left and continue up the same avenue, skirting the pier until she'd reached Port Imperial Ferry Terminal.

It would be a long (and probably tiring) journey, but as she made her first turn on Hamilton Avenue, she felt a small spark of hope igniting in her chest. Yes, she ached all over, she was weak, the cold was bitter and unforgiving, but she was officially on her way home.

She was going to go back to her family after months of nothing but horror!

" _That's right, Babcock, you will,"_ encouraged the voice, _"Keep you mind on the prize and keep going."_

Oh, she was going to keep moving alright – she had set a goal, and the only way she'd give it up was over her cold, dead body. She'd been passive for far too long, she'd let a psychopath stomp on her and almost squash the life out of her, but not anymore.

She was C.C. Babcock. She was steel. And she was getting home.

* * *

The cold air creeping in from under the door and settling over the room made it freezing in Thomas' bedroom, soon enough. Freezing enough that even in his now-a-little-more sober state, he was roused from his sleep enough to groan and wipe his eyes, and peer blearily around the room.

It was quiet. All was...normal...except...except…

The _empty space next to him_.

Thomas frowned – where was Claire?

"Claire! Get in here!"

If she was in the bathroom, his barked order would send her scurrying to finish and get back in bed. But he couldn't hear her trying to finish...

In fact, he couldn't hear anything, apart from the wind driving the snow outside. That was somehow still making it cold inside!

That did it. He was getting up and if Claire had gotten up and opened a window to feel the fucking snow again or something equally stupid, she was going to pay for waking him up and making his bedroom cold.

The source seemed to be coming from the walk-in wardrobe. She probably thought she'd get away with being in there...

"Claire, I swear if you don't get your ass back in bed right now, I _swear to fucking God_ -"

He burst through the door before he finished the sentence, and his skin immediately froze from the cold air in the room. The _Claire-less room_ , which appeared to have been mostly undisturbed – his clothes were there, the closets were all in order, too...

The window was... _mostly shut_...

Only mostly? It had been fully shut when he'd last been in there...

He crossed the room to shut it, and felt the water of melted snowflakes nip at his feet.

That was odd...there was a lot of it, for a window that was only open so much...

And Claire was still nowhere to be found. His second threat would've usually sent her running from anywhere in the house back to bed – she knew she wasn't supposed to be wandering around the house in the middle of the night! Thomas felt a surge of anger take hold of him – where the fuck had this bitch gone to?! As of late, she'd been behaving excellently (he really had to thank himself and his firm hand and perseverance for that); that's why he'd let her swim in the pool (which had turned out to be a big and nearly fatal fiasco) and given her the maps she'd asked for.

He hadn't really believed her reasons for wanting them, but since it had been Christmas and she'd been doing a good job, he'd caved. After all, there could be no harm in giving her two stupid maps!

Of course, the moment he looked out of the now-fully-closed window, towards the slanting roof, and noticed a large trail sliding down from...from where the window had been only mostly shut...to a large imprint in the garden below from where there were footprints heading away, most of them already being covered up by the snow again, he couldn't help but realise how wrong he'd been.

Thomas' eyes widened, and he felt himself sober up a little more.

 _She...she hadn't-!_

He felt something drop inside his stomach when he realised exactly what he was seeing. What had happened, and what had been done behind his back.

She'd...gone. The window was open because she'd climbed out and those were her actual footprints leading away from the house and heading all the way down the street!

She'd run away while he'd been sleeping, and he hadn't heard a thing!

Thomas wanted to slam his fist into the wall. Not that it would make enough of a substitute for Claire's torso. How dare she _defy_ him?! His will was the only important rule in the place, and it had to be obeyed at _all_ times! He was the master of the house – _nobody_ left without his express permission, and that especially applied to disgusting little whores who were only there to serve him!

She had no will of her own. She was broken. That meant she answered to nobody but him, relied on nobody but him, asked for nothing from anybody but...

Wait a minute...she'd asked him for maps for Christmas...!

 _Maps_. Maps of New Jersey and New York. Complete with street names and numbers!

No...no, she couldn't have! There was no possible way!

But she had to have done it! Nothing else made sense, even if he had always told her that she was too stupid to do anything by herself, and that nobody would want her back if she even tried!

He felt the anger starting to rise into rage as his blood heated up. That bitch! _This_ was why she'd wanted them! She hadn't been suddenly all interested in fucking _urban geography_! She'd wanted the maps to help her mark out a fucking escape route! And he'd fallen for it and gone out of his way, spending _his own money_ to fucking help her!

She'd been planning this all along, complete with the kind of deceit that only a filthy whore could come up with! And now said whore had decided to go right out the window and into the storm!

That bitch had actually had the audacity to go ahead and leave him, as if he were disposable garbage rather than her owner! As though he didn't hold her life in the very palm of his hand and could take it away at any moment!

He was going to show her just how close it could come, the second they were both back through that door! She'd be relying on his permission for _years_ simply to look out the fucking window!

The little bitch had tried to humiliate him by running away while he slept, and that was _not_ something that he was going to allow!

She was going to have to learn her place all over again.

She was nothing. She was no one. She was a simple bitch and she owed her allegiance to him. He'd make sure that, after all of this was over, she had no way of ever stepping a foot outside her room. Never again.

The only times she'd leave her hole would be when he wanted to fuck her or to clean after him – and he'd keep a watchful eye on her whenever she was upstairs, too. He'd chain her, if he had to, but he was going to make damn sure she regretted the day she decided to disobey him.

His bitch of a wife would not have a moment's worth of peace. He'd make sure of it. He'd make her life a living hell until he'd deemed her to have paid for her misgivings. Not that that would happen anytime soon.

Thomas' only consolation was that she wouldn't get far – she couldn't! She'd only been in her nightwear when he'd–

But wait. He was in his wardrobe. Maybe the little cow had gone through more than he'd thought...!

Opening up the all the closets one after the other, tearing past clothes and shoes, he eventually found what he had been looking for.

There was a gap on the rail he'd designated for coats and jackets. His warmest one, the coat that could cover the body of a little slut with no trouble, had been taken. A large pair of hiking boots was also missing.

That fucking bitch had the audacity to not only try and leave him, but she'd stolen his things as well?!

That did it. Something snapped in Thomas' mind – he was going out there to find her, and he was going to drag her back by the hair. Then he'd give her the correction of her life, and she'd be back in her room before she could so much as even think about the word "outside"!

She'd never see the light of day again, and she'd be forced to see that he was her whole world then.

Cursing under his breath (and itching to put his fist through something), Thomas quickly threw on the clothes he'd been wearing earlier, patting his pockets to check for…for…

 _What the hell…?!_

He dove his hand into one. Then the other. The realisation hit him after that.

Then he let out a scream of utter rage, kicking and punching the door of the nearest closet until it broke – that bitch had stolen his fucking fifty dollars as well!

The bitch had stolen his money! She'd gone into his things and taken it from him like she thought he was a fucking ATM instead of her fucking superior!

She was going to pay for all of this, so hard...she'd be seeing permanent stars by the time he was done, and he didn't care about the no-face-injuries rule anymore.

If she was going to act like an ugly bitch, then he'd make her one.

He reached into the closet and pulled out his second-warmest jacket. Clearly, it was all he had left to do this with.

His keys were downstairs, so he rushed to go get them before he left.

Claire wouldn't be far away, but he was taking the car to pick her up – all over again. And this time he'd make her understand the lesson he'd been trying to teach.

She'd know who owned her, soon enough and for evermore.

He snapped on a light as he went downstairs so that he didn't have to fumble for his keys, grabbed them from their place on a hook on the wall, and practically ripped open the front door.

He slammed it shut behind him as he left, thinking about how satisfying it would be to do that to the door of Claire's room as punishment for all this.

Heading down to and opening the door of his car, he thought about which way she could've gone. The footprints would probably get fainter the longer he tried to look for them, and he had to figure out where she could possibly go that might take her...

Well, obviously she was going to try to go back to New York. The little rat would want to return to the sewer, after all.

But how would she get there? There wouldn't be any cabs or buses in this weather, the train station was an unlikely bet, but… but..

…the ferry would probably still be operating in this weather! That was it – she'd headed for the fucking port!

Well, he'd soon catch her up. Slamming his door shut and starting his engine, he backed out of his driveway without really even looking (no one was around - who was going to stop him?), and took off down the street in the direction he knew she'd have gone. They'd opened a new ferry terminal at Port Imperial last March and it was close by, so the bitch would most probably have aimed to get there, rather than to Hoboken.

Either way, he'd get her back before she'd gotten on that fucking boat and made it across to New York City.

She wanted to escape – well that was all fine and dandy. A cat always plays with its prey before ending its misery, and he would play with her alright. If she thought he was cruel before, she had no idea what he had in store for her, once she came back to where she belonged. She'd regret the day she ever thought about escaping, when he was done with her. He'd make her life a living hell.

And with that thought in mind, Thomas stepped on the gas, his car soon disappearing into the storm as it hurtled down Hamilton Avenue, towards the ferry terminal.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 18**

" _A Helping Hand"_

The sound of water boiling in the coffee machine was almost a mercy to Alicia. How could it not be, at an hour she could only describe as the Lord's forgotten time? Anybody in their right mind had to be safe wrapped up in bed, especially with that storm going on outside like nobody's business.

The only reason Alicia was there herself was because a younger co-worker had asked her to swap shifts. The company, what with its ferry being such a new service, had insisted that somebody stay on the desk even overnight to promote themselves as the "most reliable and accessible ferry company in the Tri-State area!". But her co-worker, Sally, had a baby to care for and she couldn't be the one to stay all that time!

Sally didn't have anybody else to care for the little one, and Alicia had felt it a moral duty to take the shift.

She knew what it was like to be a mother. She just wished her own little girl, who'd started to grow up but had never had a chance to be a mama herself, had had the same opportunity...

It'd been a year already, and yet it still hurt as if she'd only lost her that morning...

Her sadness, combined with the fact that nobody was gonna turn up at this hour in this weather, made her feel like this whole shift wasn't worth it. The only saving grace apart from her freshly made coffee was the fact that the next ferry to go was the last of the day.

She could go home and go to bed afterwards, and not have to think about her dead child for a little while.

Or so she thought until the peace of the empty terminal was interrupted by the sound of the main door being pushed open.

Alicia almost couldn't believe her eyes at first. The person who rushed in as the doors opened couldn't look more like a ghost if she'd tried! She was skinny as hell, pale to the point of almost being blue, and the coat and shoes she was wearing were...well, they didn't fit right to be hers!

Was she wearing her pj's underneath them?! She had to be soaked to the skin already from all the snow out there! The girl was gonna catch her death!

And the closer she got, the more Alicia realised she was shaking. Not from cold, though...no, Alicia had seen that look before.

The girl was _terrified_.

In an instant, Alicia knew that something wasn't right. She could easily tell, given how the girl looked in general and because of the clear desperation that came from running out into the middle of a snowstorm,

She very nearly stumbled all the way to the counter, only occasionally looking over her shoulder, like she was being followed.

And she was.

Not that Alicia knew this, of course, even if she'd perceived it. She had no idea the danger C.C. was in or that the producer's time was running short. Walking all the way to Port Imperial had been challenging, to say the least — by the end she'd barely had any strength to move and her body was going numb due to the intense cold. It had been inevitable for her to slow her pace, but the moment she'd seen a car — and a very familiar car, at that — speeding in the direction of the port, it was almost as if C.C.'s body had been given a much-needed adrenaline shot.

That was Thomas' car.

Thomas was in it.

Thomas was after her.

He'd woken up, found out she was gone and quickly deduced what she intended to do.

She remembered sprinting the last few meters that separated her from the ferry terminal. She simply couldn't afford to do anything else! If Thomas got to her, it was game over. He'd never let her out of his sight again and she'd truly and really have lost any chance at freedom. She'd be as good as dead, if she was honest.

She just had to get to the ferry and pray that he hadn't seen her or that he decided to buy a ticket and check if she was there. While she'd walked, it had occurred to her that she could ask the cashier to call the police so they would come and pick her up instead of having to walk all the way back, but given Thomas' proximity, she couldn't afford to lose any precious seconds. It was back to the original plan, and she had to get out of sight as quickly (and as inconspicuously) as possible.

"I...I need a ticket to New York," she practically screamed at the cashier, who was looking at her with no small amount of concern. "Please...please I need a ticket!"

She couldn't help her voice cracking as she spoke, or tears springing from her tired eyes.

Alicia's heart broke at the sound of her desperation, and in between running up the numbers on her cash register, she tried just as desperately to shush the young woman's crying.

She ended up leaning over the counter and grabbing her hand, murmuring comforting words to her.

"Hey, hey – it's gonna be okay, baby girl. Whatever it is, Imma getcha out," she quickly ducked her head down to look at the price. "Your ticket will be nine dollars, okay?"

Gulping in air as she tried to calm herself, C.C. nodded and reached into a pocket, her hand closing around her stolen fifty do–

 _Huh?!_

Feeling her breathing starting to speed up again, she checked the other pocket. Empty. She tried to look for holes that could've slipped something into the lining, but there were nothing. All the possible pockets all over the coat were empty!

Now her heart was back to nearly beating out of her weak chest, and the tears were overflowing in loud, hyperventilated sobs before she could stop herself.

She'd lost the money. Probably back when she'd jumped from the roof...

She'd lost her only chance at coming home!

"What's the matter?" the cashier asked, looking concerned at her panic. "Can't you find your money?"

Not that C.C. was really listening. She was panicking too much for that.

Oh, God... this was it. If she couldn't get a ticket, Thomas would find her in the terminal! He'd drag her back and he'd...he'd...

She _had_ to get on that ferry! It didn't matter what that took, she had to do it!

She leaned over the counter, one palm flat on the surface, her other gently resting there, curled over and throbbing with the pain in her wrist, voice breaking with sobs.

"Please – you have to get me on that ferry! Someone's coming–" she checked back over her shoulder at that. Was it just the wind making the doors rattle a little, or was someone coming in? "He's gonna...he'll hurt me if he finds me here!"

She had to get on that boat - there had to be something she could do to get that ticket! She couldn't come this far for it all to be taken away again!

She had to have something on her worth enough...

That was it. She'd taken off that awful "wedding" ring Thomas had given her as soon as she'd begun her walk to the terminal, but she hadn't done the same with the engagement ring! That absolutely had to be worth enough!

She grabbed at her own hand, wrenching the damned thing off and ignoring the searing pain that went up her arm as she did, thrusting the hideous ring towards the cashier.

"Here – take it! Please! It'll pay for a thousand tickets there and back, it's worth more than–"

Alicia had to interrupt.

"Hey, hey! Just calm it down there, baby girl," she said, calmly taking the ring (which Alicia believed to be an imitation, rather than a real diamond) before her new friend in need of protection got any more upset. "I'll take the ring, if it means so much to ya. And don't you worry about the ticket – I'll pay."

She wasn't going to abandon this one to whatever was coming. The girl was in too great a need to be left to her own devices - especially if she said this man was already on his way. The girl had no way of defending herself - her wrist was clearly broken, and that was sending up a whole bunch of alarm bells in Alicia's head.

Had this guy done that to her? What would he do if he caught up to her?

Alicia didn't want to know, and she sure as heck didn't want this girl to get caught, either.

So, after rummaging in her pocket for the nine dollars the girl would have needed to pay for the ticket and placing them in the till, she printed off the ticket and handed it to her gently, closing her other hand over the one hand on the girl that wouldn't be hurting.

"Here; take it, and may God get you where you wanna go safe," she murmured, squeezing her hands tightly. "And if anybody comes lookin', you were never here."

The girl burst into fresh tears at that, but this time her eyes had taken on a new shine as well. It was almost like this was the most kindness she'd received in a long time.

From how skinny she was and judging by what she'd said, Alicia could believe it, too.

"Thank you – thank you so much!" the girl cried.

Alicia waved a hand, both dismissing the thanks and ushering her along, "No need for that, honey – just get yourself on board!"

Again, the skinny thing nodded, still weeping but trying to stop, and hurried off in the direction of the ferry, her damaged arm and the ticket pulled tight against her chest.

She was clutching her ticket like it had winning lottery numbers on it, and as Alicia went back to watching the doors, she couldn't help but feel that to that girl, what she'd done might as well have given her the riches of a lifetime.

It was, of course, a bittersweet moment. Part of Alicia wished someone could have given her child the kindness she'd just given this girl. That someone had come to her aid when her bastard of a husband was beating her to death...

But it simply hadn't been. Her baby was six feet under, even if it killed Alicia to say so, but she'd just saved another poor darling from ending up like her Mariah.

"This is for you, baby girl," Alicia whispered to herself, part of her hoping her child could hear her, wherever she was. "It will always be for you..."

When Mariah had been murdered, Alicia had promised herself she'd dedicate her life to fight against domestic violence. As such, she volunteered in women's shelters on the weekends and always tried to be kind to them.

She always tried to listen to them, too, because most of them lacked just that – someone who was willing to listen to them and to their pain. The poor things had too many things on their shoulders and, more often than not, needed someone to listen to their sorrow.

Maybe she'd see about tracking this girl down. She probably had nowhere to go, as was the case of most of these runaway women. She could invite her to her home, if she needed to stay somewhere until she could get back on her feet.

She'd be more than happy to help her, if she needed her to—

The doors to the terminal burst open for the second time that night, nearly slamming against the walls behind. They jolted Alicia sharply out of her thoughts and her eyes snapped up to see them letting a tall man covered in snow, both his fists clenched tight and clearly angry beyond all sense, march in.

He looked like the kind of man that would make a woman jump out of her skin, even without slamming doors announcing his arrival when he went into places!

And of course, he homed right in on the check-in desk the minute he'd scanned the place once, storming over with a force that made the blizzard outside look like a light rain shower.

He got more imposing the closer he got, until Alicia felt something about him want to make her turn around and get the hell out of there in the other direction.

This had to be him. This had to be the guy that girl was running from! What were the chances that another person would be out there, this time of the night? And even if it was late, what were the odds that another random stranger just wanting to take the ferry would give off such creepy and angry vibes?

But she couldn't let on that she knew who he was. It'd give the whole game away and put the girl back in danger again...

The guy all but slammed his fists down on the desk as soon as he was close enough. He leaned in far too close for Alicia's liking, but she held firm and kept herself exactly where she was.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Calling him "sir" felt wrong. People who beat up and terrified women didn't deserve respect like that. But she had to keep all of that inwards...

"I'm looking for my wife," he told her, not even bothering to introduce himself. "She's about five nine, blonde, thin...I have to get her back home – she's _...mentally unwell_ and not supposed to be out by herself. You see, she sometimes gets confused and wanders off by herself, which is something her doctors have absolutely prohibited her from doing. Has she come through here?"

If any doubt had been in Alicia's mind at all, the man's statement would've confirmed that not telling him was exactly the right thing to do.

" _Mentally unwell and not supposed to be out by herself"_... her former son-in-law had said stuff like that about her Mariah just before he stopped letting her see anybody. It practically screamed that he had no respect for the girl, and the thought of what could happen if Alicia let slip even the slightest thing set alarm bells off in her head.

Alicia knew the only way of turning them off.

So, she gave her best look of surprise and concern.

"Oh, I remember now! I had no idea that girl might've had a husband!"

She swore she saw a flash of ice in his eyes after she said that.

"Well, she does. And she's much better off back home. So, where is she?"

Alicia screwed up her face a little, pretending to think, "She left about an hour ago, I think. She didn't have any money, the poor thing, so I couldn't let her through. I think she must've lost the cash she had, 'cause she looked for it but couldn't find anythin'. I felt a little sorry, she looked so upset."

The man looked like he could've either hit the desk, or even Alicia herself. But she would've thought it worth it, if it meant that that girl got away.

And she was planning on saying a little more, just to rub it in the guy's face and make him squirm.

Just before the guy could turn away, to do whatever shady individuals such as himself did, she spoke up again as though she were just remembering something.

"Y'know, come to think of it, she _did_ ask where the nearest hospital was. She looked like she had something wrong with her wrist, so I'd say she needed it," she told him, still faking it but now adding in a knowing smile. "She left when I told her. She probably knew that was exactly where she had to go. I'm sure if you head along there now, you'll find exactly what you're lookin' for."

Thomas stiffened, even though he tried not to show it. The woman's words seemed polite, but they sounded in his head like they had a hint of a threat to them...

But how could they? She said Claire had left for the nearest hospital...

 _Jesus fucking Christ, the hospital...!_

A hospital meant identification. Identification meant finding out that Claire was registered missing. Finding out she was registered as missing meant getting the police involved!

The game was up, and he had to get out of there. _Fast_.

He'd never thought it would come to this, but it was time to resort to his contingency plan. A few months before he'd first taken Claire, he'd made a brief weekend trip to the small town of City of Lake, Texas. Normally, he'd have never stepped a foot inside a dingy, long-since-forgotten, travesty of a town, but necessity called for him to have some sort of back-up plan, should things go wrong.

He'd bought himself an old (if reasonably sized) house using a fake identity, and he'd spent the following weeks refurbishing it in case he needed somewhere to hide for a while.

Somehow, he'd turned an otherwise wishy-washy dump into a habitable two-story home. It only had two bedrooms, and a small open area that combined the living room, the kitchen and the dining room together. It would be, if he compared it to his beautiful home, a dreadful downsizing. Marble would soon be changed for ceramic tile, Macassar ebony for insipid linoleum, and wide-open spaces for crammed rooms with unglamorous plywood walls.

It would be Hell on Earth, and it was all thanks to that stupid bitch! If she'd stayed in her place, none of this would have ever happened! He'd still be the king of his own castle, and she'd still be his pretty bitch, whose only purpose was serving him and looking pretty.

Thomas wanted to belt that cunt so hard right then...

But he couldn't. He couldn't even go scouring all the nearby hospitals to find her – given the way his luck seemed to have unjustly turned, the police would probably be at every single one of them, and maybe even patrolling the areas in between.

He was going to have to practically scurry home, checking every corner and light behind him in the mirror, practically praying that anybody going the other way wasn't an undercover cop...

He'd have to be like a rat, making his escape from one bolthole to another, and trying desperately to avoid all of the traps set up for him along the way.

Without saying another word to the cashier bitch, he turned around and marched out of the terminal. He had to get moving, before anybody decided to try and come looking for him around anywhere else that was open at that time of night.

And all the while, he made a mental checklist of the things he had to pack. Clothes, obviously, plus all the money he'd saved up that his little escaped slut _hadn't_ gone and lost...

He needed his gun, too. And his fake ID. He'd gotten that shortly after Lane had started sniffing around - he'd even gotten some for Claire, in case they both had to go in a hurry.

Seeing as it was a new town, he'd have been able to afford the luxury of taking her outside, had they gone there. She'd only be one step above wearing a collar and a leash to keep her there, but that was what he would have done.

Now he was just going to have to go there alone.

But it wouldn't be forever.

No, sir.

That bitch might've thought she was safe now — that she'd gotten rid of him at long last. But she was wrong. He was nothing if a patient man. A man who would lie in wait until it was the perfect time to strike and take back what was rightfully his.

And when he'd done so, she'd regret the day she'd ever decided to leave his side.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 19**

" _Adsum"_

Ten minutes.

That's how long it had taken her to cross the Hudson river. Ten minutes.

To C.C., those mere ten minutes had been an eternity – an abyss of time that now represented the threshold of a new life. In a way, C.C. felt like a stray soul that had somehow bargained her way out of the Underworld and was now crossing the river Styx, back to the World of the Living. There was suffering mixed in with what could only be described as utter joy, and for quite some time, C.C. couldn't bring herself to move.

When she finally took her first steps back onto solid New York ground, she thought she might've wept.

Her home city...it hadn't changed at all...all the sights and the sounds were exactly the same, and all the people in it...

It was almost like wandering into a dream, immediately after escaping a nightmare, even if her journey was far from over. She had yet to make her way to Lennox Hill Hospital.

" _You can do it, Babcock,"_ encouraged a voice she thought had left her, back when she'd left Thomas' house. _"You survived all those months, you can survive a few more minutes and a few more steps that my grandmother could run, let alone walk!"_

Everything really was going to go back to the way it was...and if she'd be running into the real face of a certain butler any time soon, she had to be prepared.

She began trudging through the snow again, exhausted still but with a refreshed sense of purpose.

Home wasn't far, and she had zingers for company.

" _Did your grandma have to run when you and your family were busy escaping Pompeii?"_

She swore that she almost heard the voice chuckle at that one. Just before he naturally fired back, of course.

" _Oh, look! An American knows where a place outside of America is! Though I'm honestly not sure that I should expect too much – at one point it was probably a target of conquest for yourself and the other Huns."_

With every zinger that was shot between the two, C.C. walked a little more. She was frozen down to the marrow of her bones, she was sore from walking and hunger and exhausted from the lack of sleep. But she couldn't help smiling, still.

She was back home, and as long as she kept moving, she was sure she'd stay there...

She wasn't going to risk Thomas having decided to drive from New Jersey, so she kept as much of a low profile as she could. There were a few more cars around the streets, despite the weather, but she avoided them – who knew who they belonged to? She could barely see what was right in front of her face, let alone make out who was behind the wheel!

And all the while, the butler's voice praised her for surviving.

" _You really are the woman I thought you were,"_ it told her. _"Only the real C.C. Babcock would possibly be so stubborn and strong headed as to go out into the middle of a blizzard, not knowing if she'd live, but doing it and making it anyway!"_

C.C. tried a smirk, but it made her mouth hurt - her lips were cracking from the cold.

Instead, she thought back her smugness and took another few steps.

" _The 'real' me? When was I ever a fake me?"_

The voice pretended to think before answering, _"Well, there was that one time when I thought that maybe your species had come to collect you and hear what you'd learned about Earth, so they had replaced you with a mechanical version..."_

C.C. laughed. But even through the funny side, she knew she had to get to the hospital. That zinger hadn't been exactly good, and if the zingers were getting clunkier, that meant she wasn't thinking as straight as before...

It didn't take a genius to pick up on what was going on – she was out and about in a ferocious blizzard wearing nothing but a jacket and flimsy PJ's (both completely drenched) and she had little to no body fat to maintain a decent body temperature.

 _Hypothermia was starting to set in_ – now the clock was really ticking. She had to step up her pace, no matter how difficult or painful it might be. Otherwise, she was done for.

Back when she'd been a young girl, her family would always spend the holidays either skiing in Aspen, or at some exotic beach in a paradisiac location. More often than not, however, they'd favour Aspen over any beach which was, in C.C.'s humble opinion, a blessing.

She'd rather spend her holidays skiing and then relaxing in the hot tub than frying under the sun. She'd never seemed to tan – the best she'd ever managed was that one time when she'd been seventeen and her skin had turned a faint shade of beige instead of the usual lobster-coloured mess. Besides, she and Noel had had (actually, _still_ had) a little bet on who could kick the other's butt more times while skiing. They'd race one another constantly and C.C. had made quite a bit of money on the steepest and highest slopes.

One time, however, one of their races had taken a rather unfortunate turn and Noel had crashed into a tree and broken his leg in three places, something which had required medical attention. C.C. remembered she'd been the one who had to go for help, something she'd done efficiently and quickly. The doctor and her parents had congratulated her on her quick thinking before the former had proceeded to tell them about everything that could potentially happen to them if they ever found themselves in a similar situation. Among the parade of gory injuries and ailments, hypothermia had been mentioned. The doctor had described the different stages and how the person suffering from it would slowly lose their life. He'd explained that hypothermia made thinking and moving increasingly difficult and that the body would slow down as the temperature dropped until, eventually, it would give up.

She knew that there were three stages of hypothermia – moderate, mild and then severe. She was well into the first one and, most probably, on the second stage's doorstep. It wouldn't be long until keeping a level head had become a challenge, so she had to do everything in her power to get to Lennox Hill before any of that happened.

She had an hour-long walk ahead, which was not a whole lot of time considering the cold was already taking its toll on her, but she'd be damned before giving up. She hadn't come this far to fall at the final hurdle.

She wouldn't let the cold win. She wouldn't let that bastard Thomas win, either. She'd see herself live as long as every breath of it meant that she could spite him...

Spite him, and be free of him.

Knowing that, however, didn't necessary make walking any easier, but it did give her a little added something extra every time it came to putting the next foot in from of the other.

The voice was back as well, loud and clear over the biting cold of the howling winds whistling around her and forcing her to pull her good arm in tighter around her body.

" _Hang in there, Babcock,"_ it told her each time, including the time that the wind nearly knocked her backwards. _"We're getting a little nearer every time...! Not much farther now!"_

She knew she had to keep listening to the encouragement, and not give up the minute a step looked difficult. Slow and steady steps were better than none. She usually lived for the high-adrenaline life and the rush of work to be completed instantly, but today...

Today, she was just happy that there was progress at all.

She just needed a little more time. That wasn't something that she often thought to herself – usually she prided herself on being so prompt and punctual about everything and everywhere that she needed to be...

She used to turn up at the mansion practically on the dot of nine every day for work. Part of her tried to imagine the looks on the Sheffield's and Nanny Fine's faces if she turned up at their door that night (night? Early morning? It was hard to tell anymore), probably blue from the cold and letting all the snow in behind her...

The thought died in her head almost as soon as she'd got it in her mind. She had to keep focusing on getting where she'd already decided - and knew, really - that she had to go. She couldn't let herself spoil or complicate things by having to stop and change her direction.

Doing that could be the difference between surviving and freezing to death in the street.

Now that she'd gotten out of that nightmare hellhole that Thomas had been keeping her in, she certainly knew which she'd prefer. She'd take death over being in Thomas' home any day…

" _Now, now, Babcock, no one needs to die here,"_ the voice interjected in an almost chastising manner, " _One foot in front of the other, that's all you need to do right now."_

C.C. huffed – even in the shape of an imaginary voice he could be one annoying snarky bastard.

" _Oh, you know you love me!"_ teased the voice; C.C. could almost feel the butler nudging her in the ribs. She didn't dignify his (her own mind's?) joke with a reply, but deep down she knew that, yes, she'd be damned, but she _loved_ the man. He was a perennial pain in the butt, but he was _her_ perennial pain in the butt.

" _Aw, I am flattered, Babs!"_ said the voice, obviously aware of what she'd been thinking – there was no escaping from her own mind _in_ her own mind, after all.

Still, the knowledge that the voice was not really Niles did not prevent C.C. from turning bright red in the face.

It was the closest she'd come to chuckling in so long, it almost hurt that she was too cold to fully manage it.

The weather was taking over again in that regard, reminding her that she couldn't slack off or she could lose herself completely.

" _You'll have plenty of chances to go off as you please when there's no chance of becoming an icicle,"_ the voice agreed. She could almost see Niles nodding sagely at the advice she was sure he'd give if he was really there. It might've partially been to make her laugh as well. _"So, you'd better keep on hurrying your way – the hospital can't be far, now!"_

The hospital was to be her final destination; the place where she could declare herself found at last, and get the medical attention she so desperately needed.

She could contact her friends and loved ones from there, and that thought nearly made her weep.

" _Don't, Babs, you'll melt!"_

C.C. smiled to herself – _asshole._

" _But one that you've missed very much!"_

Yes, yes she had. At one point in her life, the thought of missing Niles would have made her laugh, but not today. She wanted to see him again, talk to him. Maybe not pick up where they'd left off (she didn't think she was ready for that), but certainly go back to having fun together.

During her first few days in captivity she'd blamed the butler for what had happened to her – she'd believed him guilty of having pushed her into Thomas' trap, but now she knew better. Knowing Thomas as she did, she was certain that he would have found a way to take her, sooner or later. Her fight with Niles had unluckily made it easier for him, but it wasn't Niles fault.

It would never be.

He'd tried to find her, in any case. He'd pointed the police in the right direction, and for that she was incredibly thankful. Even if his efforts had not resulted in her being found, she still considered them one of the biggest shows of kindness she'd ever experienced.

Funny. That was something she'd have never thought, a year ago. Not even if it had been the truth. She'd have found some way of getting around it, even if that meant immediately distracting herself with something else so that the thought didn't even enter her head.

But now, she couldn't imagine denying it. Along with just how much she'd missed the butler.

And from all the efforts he'd clearly made to find her, it was obvious that he'd missed her, too. How much, she couldn't be sure, though.

" _There's only one way to find that out,"_ the voice said.

That was more than a hint as to what it was getting at. She'd nearly stopped because she was so caught up in thinking...

The cold was nearly making her entirely numb at this point. The voice had more than a point about keeping moving. So, she trudged on, in spite of the biting cold lacing around her every bone, seeping deep into her very soul. She could barely see ahead, as it was, but remaining where she was, wasn't an option.

Her throbbing wrist needed seeing to, and she absolutely had to get out of the cold before it was too late.

Snow crunched under her feet with every step she gave; it reminded her of happy winter mornings spent with her family, back when her parents had still been together. It reminded her of the endless snowball fights she and Noel would have right after opening their countless Christmas gifts, or how they'd spend hours on end building snowmen or making snow angels in the backyard. And then, after they'd gotten worn out from playing outside, they'd stumble back in, where Nanny Bobo would be waiting with steaming cups of hot cocoa.

Hers always had whipped cream and five marshmallows in.

It was bliss, remembering happy times while facing what felt like she'd had the wrath of winter unleashed on her, and it was her memories what pushed her forward.

She could have all of it back, if she only kept going.

Still, C.C. was all too well aware of the cold – it was becoming unbearable, and moving her feet was becoming a painfully difficult task. Part of her knew this was a consequence of hypothermia, but it didn't mean it was any less worrying.

And as she continued to move, reality became… _rarefied_.

She didn't really notice when her feet stopped feeling cold. Or her hands. She was too busy thinking about those family winter mornings, back when she'd been a child.

Back before she knew that any of this was going to happen.

And, before she knew it, Nanny Bobo was right in front of her eyes! Larger than life, just as she'd always been, beaming and carrying a tray.

The tray had cups of cocoa on it. And C.C. just knew that one of them would have whipped cream and five marshmallows, just like it had always done...

C.C. blinked hard, and in a flash the vision was gone again. She knew it couldn't have been right – the woman looked like she hadn't aged a day, when she'd have to at least be middle-to-late nursing home age by this point!

Still, she had to keep walking. Only this time she let her good hand hang down by her side, and she drifted along the street without even feeling the crunch of the deep snow beneath Thomas' stolen boots.

She wasn't really sure what had happened, but it didn't feel unbearable anymore.

It was almost…well…almost as if it wasn't there.

The streets, sounds, colours – everything around her, really, seemed to blur and fuse into one massive, indistinct smudge in the background. It was as if she were walking down a very long and very dark tunnel, but there was no glowing white light at the end. She supposed it was fitting – she'd felt as if she'd been in the darkness for months now.

She was moving on autopilot, making turns here and there, not really paying attention to what she was doing or where she was going. She only became vaguely aware of having arrived at Central Park when she bumped into its closed gates. She didn't really mind – she merely turned to her right, determined to skirt around the edge of the park.

She brushed her good hand along the park's fence as she went, oblivious to the coldness of the metal. Where was it that she was going? She couldn't quite remember…

Still, she continued moving forward, mainly out of a deep sense of needing to continue going.

Maybe…maybe she was trying to get to her apartment? She didn't have the key on her…she couldn't remember where she'd left it.

The night doorman would be on. He could probably let her in, if she knocked loudly enough...

She could have a proper look around for that key, as well. If she just...got her jacket off...

The heavy material came away easily, slipping a weight off her shoulders that she could then carry with better ease. She'd rifle through the pockets if she remembered, and then she'd get back home.

Yeah. She could do that. It just didn't feel like it was what she was _supposed_ to be doing...

Why didn't it feel like it was what she was supposed to be doing...?

" _That's because you're_ _ **not**_ _going to your apartment, remember?"_ said...said a voice? _"You are going to the hospital, Babs."_

...Hospital?

Had she really been heading there instead of going straight to her penthouse - her little bolthole that protected her from everyone and everything in the world?

The voice really strongly seemed to think so _, "You need medical attention, Babcock, and you're not going to get it by stumbling around, looking for keys!"_

Medical attention? Did she really need that? She didn't feel like she did… she was okay, wasn't she?

" _No, you are not!"_ insisted the voice, _"You have a broken wrist, you are in the middle of a storm and you are both underweight and undernourished! You_ _ **need**_ _to get to the hospital!"_

C.C. frowned and looked down at her body – was she really underweight? She hadn't noticed…

It didn't show, either. Maybe if she removed her pyjamas she'd be able to see better…

" _NO!"_ the voice screamed, startling C.C. just as her fingers closed around the pyjama pants' elastic band. _"You_ _ **cannot**_ _afford to do that – you are running away, Babs, remember? Thomas Jones, your assistant, he kidnapped you! You are running away from him…"_

Run...running away...? Was that what she'd been doing before...?

That...sounded... _right_...

 _More_ than right...

The pants' elastic band snapped back against her skin with the realisation.

 _Oh, God!_ She really _had_ been running away! From the man who'd _kidnapped_ her!

Kidnapped, and beaten, and starved, and...and...

The wail that C.C. let out, and the sobbing that followed, would've echoed all the way down the street, had the blizzard not drowned it all out.

But the awful weather, as numb to the cold as it had made her, couldn't take away the pain that was spreading inside. Thomas had kept her like a toy for eight months and the memories were flooding back in before she could do anything to stop them.

The first time he'd beaten her, leaving black and blue bruises and a silent promise that that time wouldn't be the last...

Any number of the times that he'd sat there and eaten in front of her, while she was left to starve...

The first time he'd...oh, God, the first time he'd forced her down and-

" _Babs!"_ the voice shouted over the wind and her thoughts. It sounded like two warm, strong, protective hands should be cupping her face as it did _. "You need to focus! Yes, those things happened! But you're not there anymore! You're out here - you've escaped, and you have to survive!"_

C.C. shook her head no, falling to her knees. She…she couldn't go on. She didn't have the strength. Not when it had been taken away by an awful, awful bastard – a bastard who'd broken her beyond repair. If anything, the only thing she felt she could do was curl up in a tight little ball and quietly drift into oblivion.

It would be a lonely and sad way to go, but it would be painless. Having known nothing but pain for the past eight months, that sounded like a blessing. She could let go and go to sleep, at long last.

She was tired. So very, very tired…

" _Chastity-Claire Babcock get up right this instant!"_

For the second time in just a few short minutes C.C. was startled by the power and clear anger dripping from the voice's words – she'd never heard it so angry before. Come to think of it, she'd never even seen the _real_ Niles this angry before!

" _You bet your life you never saw the real me like this!"_ the voice snapped. _"But if he were here, he'd be saying the same thing I am telling you right now!"_

C.C. sniffed, and wiped at her eyes before the tears could freeze on her cheeks. She knew the voice was right - whether he was just in her head or if he was there in person, Niles would be telling her to get up.

He'd be telling her that she was better than this.

" _I could have told you that myself,"_ the voice said. It was gentler this time, but still as firm and with every inclination of becoming ordering if she fell down again. _"Listen to me, here and now. You are not broken. You never were. The rat bastard only wanted you to think that to make things easier on him! Are you going to keep on making things easy for him?"_

The very thought repulsed C.C. more than words could say.

"N-No..."

" _Then get up on your feet and get to that hospital! You survived eight months and you escaped this far, Babs; don't let it all go to waste!"_

The voice, again, was right. What was she doing? Why the hell was she taking this almost sitting down?!

She'd gone out there to try and live in the first place, not to just give up and die in the street!

Slowly, and steadily, without letting herself collapse back to the ground, she got back to her feet again. She stumbled the first few steps, but soon she was rushing down the street, forcing herself to put one foot in front of the other as quickly as humanly possible.

Street signs whizzed past her as she went, the numbers increasing with vertiginous speed. Or so it felt to her – she wasn't aware of this, but she wasn't moving very fast. Regardless, she kept moving, fighting the howling wind blowing against her and the brutal cold cutting through her tired and overworked body.

She was determined to get home – she _had_ to get home, or die trying.

" _You are just ten blocks away, Babs, keep going!"_ the voice said encouragingly as C.C. stumbled down the intersection of 5th Avenue and 69th Street. _"It's just one last little effort."_

C.C. gnashed her teeth – she was so very close…

So close to safety. To her family. To her friends. She had to keep going! She had to force herself to keep going, even if her body was dangerously close to shutting down. Her heartbeat, even after having run at least fifteen blocks, was that of a sleeping slug, her temperature had dipped well under 84 degrees and both her respiratory rate and blood pressure had drastically decreased.

She was on a race against time, and it was catching up with her.

But the hospital was in sight. She'd just seen the sign for it, and she knew that now amount of snow or bleary eyesight would let her mistake it...!

She was close. So very close. And so very tired...but she wasn't going to give into it...

Not yet. Not until she'd...she'd seen...

She dropped to the ground the minute she got to the obviously-locked-against-the-weather door, knocking as hard as she could.

It wasn't that hard.

 _Knock. Knock-knock._

Someone had to be there - a hospital couldn't just close because of a couple of flakes of snow! The receptionists, and overnight doctors and nurses had to be in there...!

Somebody had to hear her. They couldn't just...

She had to knock harder. She'd fought her way there, survived eight months of hell, and she wasn't about to give up and let them not find her now!

Using up the last of her strength, she pounded - as hard as she could - one last time on the door.

That was the blow that knocked all her energy out, and she knew there was nothing more she could do.

Was this it? That was all she could ask herself as her eyes started to close. Was she supposed to get this far, for it all to come to nothing...?

Was she supposed to never see Niles again?

Maybe...maybe if she tried hard enough, she could imagine him. Maybe that was what she was supposed to do, and he'd take her away from the pain...

But as she started to voluntarily close her eyes, a light appeared that she hadn't seen before - a stronger, more Earthly light than the one she had been prepared to walk towards.

It was a door opening. A hospital door.

And in an instant there were hands. Warm, soft hands...lifting her? She was being dragged inside...

They settled her...she was on the floor...and they were starting to undress her...

She was almost too tired to feel the usual fear; the part of her mind that could be terrified it was Thomas having shut down already, but it would have been able to relax soon enough anyway.

She caught a proper glimpse of the stranger. It was a woman...in a...white coat...a doctor...

And she was screaming for somebody else.

" _Hannah! Hannah, get your ass over here immediately_!"

Another, faint set of footsteps hurried over, and C.C. saw the brunette nurse...gaping?

" _W-wha-what happened?!"_ the woman cried. _"Did she get here walking?!"_

" _Yes, she did!"_ the woman doctor replied. _"She is suffering from hypothermia! Go get me all the blankets you can lay your hands on! Then bring me a gurney and Dr Jacobs!"_

The brunette woman was gone again in an instant, but C.C. thought she left some kind of trail in the air behind her...like the squiggles of a heatwave...

Was this a side effect of that hypothermia...?

She faintly felt the doctor check for a pulse, but it was becoming difficult to stay awake. She'd closed her eyes, and only managed to open them again when the doctor asked her a question.

" _Who did this to you?"_

C.C. tried to speak - tried to tell her everything, but while the words sort of formed in her mind and in her heart, they couldn't make their way up her throat and out.

She...she needed a minute...they'd be stronger in a minute...

The doctor was obviously desperate though, and tried again.

" _Who are you, Miss? Do you know where you are?"_

After another laboured breath, C.C. made a push to answer one question.

She had to tell them. She had to tell the whole world that she was there...

"B...Babcock. I...C.C. Babcock..."

" _Your name is C.C. Babcock?"_ the doctor repeated.

They knew. She'd done it.

And...she wanted to tell more...

"Y-yes...I was k-kidnapped...twenty third of May..."

Her eyes were getting heavy. She needed to sleep...so very badly...

" _Miss Babcock, please, open your eyes!"_

But she couldn't listen to the doctor. She was too exhausted; too exhausted even to ask where they were taking her when they were lifting her up on a...a stretcher? Putting blankets over her?

She could sleep now. And they could call Niles...

She had to tell them, so they knew. Then when she woke up, he could come and visit, and it would all be alright...

"Call Niles...I...wanna...Niles..."

Not that the doctor seemed to understand. Her voice sounded...confused...

" _Who is this person?"_ It got worse when C.C. didn't answer. _"Miss Babcock, speak to me!"_

She...wanted more information? C.C. must've taken it for granted, knowing Niles when other people didn't...

So, she mumbled an explanation, "Niles...Sheffield butler...I...need him...call Niles...I need Niles..."

With that said, the man himself suddenly appeared in her mind's eye, and he was the last thing she saw before the whole world and everything in it faded to black.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 20**

 _A Painful Welcome_

Lane thought she'd been dreaming, when she'd gotten the call. She wasn't a childish person by any stretch of the imagination, but she'd come this close to pinching herself to make absolutely sure that she wasn't.

Nobody in her situation would've blamed her. How could they, when eight months had passed and faith that C.C. Babcock would ever be found alive was starting to fade away?

To be told – and have it confirmed, through a sergeant in her department who'd taken the call from the hospital – that she was and that that hope hadn't been in vain was more sobering than an entire pot full of coffee.

She'd had to see the producer for herself. Of course, she had to be there as the head of the investigation, but also because she just had to see the woman who'd clearly managed to survive eight months being held captive somewhere!

She'd see her. Then they could ask her everything she knew, and (once and for all) they'd catch that bastard like a rat in a trap...

The thought of finally bringing the pig to justice was probably what made her speed up a little as she approached and pushed her way through the hospital doors, marching with purpose towards the receptionist's desk and flashing her badge.

It was so hard to believe that under an hour ago, she'd been fast asleep in her husband's arms. He'd insisted on running her a bath, setting out pyjamas and making her cocoa, before they curled up in bed, warm, safe and protected from the awful weather outside...

She also thought he might've done it to make sure what had happened at Christmas didn't happen again. He didn't want her burning herself out, or feeling like a failure...

He wanted her to feel appreciated, and she adored him for that.

She'd adore him even more, once this case was over and done with. And the next part of that was a mere stop at the reception away.

"Chief Detective Christine Lane, NYPD. I'm here to see Miss C.C. Babcock."

The young woman didn't even question her – by that stage, every member of staff knew about the missing producer having crawled into the hospital, half-dead and only in her pyjamas. Practically everyone had wanted to get a glimpse of the woman most of New York had believed dead.

Upon arrival, her injuries had been treated with outmost care – all of her doctors had agreed that, had she arrived a few minutes later, she would have not survived. They had stabilised her and left her to rest, keeping a close eye on her. The call to the police hadn't come long after that.

As such, when Lane walked through the doors and demanded to see the producer, the receptionist could only oblige.

"Of course, Detective," said the receptionist, reaching over for the phone, picking it up and quickly dialling in an inside number, "I'll let Dr Langston know you are here. Please, head over to the ICU, the doctor will be expecting you there."

Lane nodded and thanked her, before spotting the sign that pointed in the direction of the ICU and following it down the corridor.

 _Intensive Care Unit_. Even if for no other reason, being out for so long on a night like this one would be enough to see a person wind up in one...

If they weren't dead, that was. She had to give Miss Babcock credit, both for being brave enough to attempt making it to a hospital by foot, in order to get help, and for being strong enough to actually make it there.

Lane just hoped she was strong enough to pull through the rest. As soon as she was well enough to give statements, they were going to get everything down that they could.

God, it would feel so satisfying for her to name the bastard...!

The thoughts of everything to come had to be put away, however, when she turned a corner to head to the ICU. A woman in a white coat was stood there, by the door, a chart in her hands and a look on her face as though she'd been waiting.

Lane searched her recent memory, pulling the name out that the nurse had mentioned, "Dr Langston?"

The doctor nodded in confirmation, and headed over to shake Lane's hand, "You must be Detective Lane. Here to see our patient?"

"If she's ready for it," Lane replied.

Her own words made her frown. It was all starting to hit home, really. Chances were, the producer wasn't ready to speak and wouldn't be for a long time.

Dr Langston's reply only confirmed what she'd thought.

"Well, she hasn't spoken much. She's too weak, between the hypothermia and a case of severe undernourishment," she said. Then her countenance changed, to one which looked...sort of uncomfortable. "She's also extremely bruised, all over. We only really got the basics out of her. Including that she was sexually assaulted...more than a handful of times. Probably regularly, over the last eight months. She's with a nurse examiner right now."

Lane felt a blow straight in her stomach.

No wonder the bastard had been laughing at them all this time! He thought he'd gotten his own little plaything that nobody else was going to find, or even find out about! For _eight whole months_!

Well, he'd been wrong, even if he'd thought he'd won. And as soon as Miss Babcock got those words out that confirmed everything she'd been through ( _endured_ , for that length of time!), there would be a warrant out for his arrest so fast, it'd set a new world record!

She couldn't wait to see that smug face crack as it was hauled away and thrown behind bars. She'd hated the man enough before, but after this, she couldn't think of that arrogant scumbag with anything less than loathing.

He'd pay. For all the times he'd lied to their faces by claiming to be innocent, and for all the ways he'd hurt that poor woman for what must've felt like a never-ending nightmare, he would pay.

"Is she conducting the Rape Kit on Miss Babcock?" asked Lane, shuddering a little at the thought of Miss Babcock having to endure such an invasive procedure so shortly after having escaped her abuser.

It was, of course, a necessary evil. As inconvenient and as uncomfortable as it might be, they needed the biological evidence to present in court. When it was over, she'd ensure Miss Babcock was as comfortable as she could be – she'd make sure she got home safely and was surrounded by her friends, family and a certain butler.

He was the first person she'd call, once the routine procedures regarding Miss Babcock's case were over. That included an array of medical, psychiatric and psychological tests, an assessment of Miss Babcock's emotional state and having her tell them who and what had been done to her.

It was going to be a very difficult and trying time for the producer, but all of the pain and discomfort would be worth it, once that bastard was locked up in jail. Lane had chased plenty of criminals before, but she'd never loathed one of them as much as she loathed Thomas.

He was pure evil, and his sick machinations had resulted in a poor woman having to live through what could only be described as a nightmare.

"She is," said the doctor, pursing her lips and glancing over at Miss Babcock's room's door. "I must say – the emotional and physical damage is extensive. I have never seen…such…such… _brutality."_

The doctor gestured uselessly with her hands, eventually letting them fall at each side of her. Just like Lane, she'd seen horrible things before – half-dead people, sick children, dead people; you name it – but never anything like this. This was the result of true depravation.

Seeing the doctor so affected by it told Lane everything she needed to know about how bad it was. Dr Langston had to have seen almost everything, from car accidents to assaults and attempted murders, and yet this was the most brutal thing she had ever witnessed?

That really only made her more determined to get the bastard.

Thomas couldn't be allowed to get away with it, and he wouldn't as soon as they had everything they needed to confirm the sick acts and crimes he'd committed on that poor woman.

He probably still thought he'd gotten away with it, or could get away with it - if he wasn't asleep, he had to know by now that his captive was missing.

But he wouldn't think that for long, if Lane had anything to do with it.

"Well," she began, steeling her insides and burning with hatred for the pig they were going to find and take down. "Then we're going to have to see her as soon as possible. We can't waste time and let the perpetrator get on the run."

She'd seen plenty of people trying to make a break for it before, and there had been quite a number who'd made it. But if this one got away...

Lane didn't like to think about it. Not if it meant letting a survivor feel unsafe because her attacker wasn't behind bars.

Of course, she was also sure a certain butler would want to stick close to her from now on and would probably protect her with his life, but she'd prefer him to not have to do that.

* * *

It was nearly an hour before the nurse examiner emerged from Miss Babcock's room, looking pale and like she needed a drink; it was easy to tell she was the bearer of terrible news .

"So, what have you found?" Dr Langston said to the nurse, fidgeting in her place. Then she gestured over at Lane, "This is Chief Detective Lane, by the way – she's in charge of Miss Babcock's case."

The nurse shook her head.

"We need to sit down – _I_ need to sit down before sharing any of this with you."

Both Lane and Dr Langston shared a worried look – it really was _that_ bad. Nurse Joanne was one of their most experimented Sexual Assault Nurse Examiners; she'd dealt with hundreds of rape cases over the years, overseen numerous tests performed on victims and carried out even more tests herself. She was, by general rule, someone capable of approaching a crisis situation with a sound mind. It took something truly horrible to faze her – as a matter of fact, Dr Langston couldn't remember the last time she'd seen the nurse so affected – and by the look of things she was shaken to the core.

Dr Langston quickly went and put an arm around Joanne. "The room next to this one's empty. Let's go there."

Joanne nodded faintly, letting her friend and co-worker guide her to the nearest flat surface, which happened to be an empty hospital bed. She was then given a small cup of instant hot chocolate (courtesy of the vending machine nearest to the entrance to the ICU) by Langston, before she and Lane sat on the two empty chairs directly in front of Nurse Joanne.

They didn't pressure her into speaking – it didn't take a genius to see that what she'd heard had clearly affected her – but, eventually (and after taking a few good gulps of sweet, hot chocolate), she felt strong enough to recount what she'd heard from that poor woman.

"Miss Babcock was kept in an underground cell," began the nurse, trying hard not to let nausea overtake her (it had nearly happened while she'd listened to Miss Babcock retell the horror she'd been through), "She was starved, beaten regularly for what her captor considered _misdemeanours,_ and, eventually, he started sexually abusing her. She'd be forced to clean, cook, iron – do every house chore imaginable with little to no food given to her! She was beaten into submission and she also told me that he last forced himself on her tonight, right before she escaped. She…she broke her wrist when jumping off the roof…"

Lane hadn't thought that she could feel any sicker than when she'd learned the vague outline of what Thomas had done. It turned out that she couldn't have been more wrong if she'd tried. It was taking the effort of every cell she had in her body to not throw up upon hearing the things that that bastard had done to Miss Babcock...

When she caught that... thing (he didn't deserve the status of "man"), it was going to take that amount of effort and several times more not to put a bullet through his skull!

No wonder the poor woman had jumped off the roof - the amount of desperation she must've felt had to be staggering.

Anything to get away from that scumbag and all the things he probably would've ended up forcing her to do, as well as the things he was already making her do...

That was the wrong thing to think, really, because she started to feel the acidic bile making its way up her throat. Part of her wished that she could spit it all at Thomas - to show him just how awful he was, and how disgusted he made her feel.

But they had to find him, before any of that could happen. And that was going to take talking to Miss Babcock.

And that, in turn, made Lane put her head in her hands. Interviewing survivors like this was never easy, but somehow this one felt even worse. Obviously these things weren't a competition of who had the more nightmarish experience, but for once in her life, Lane wondered if she could actually go in there, sit down and talk with Miss Babcock without bursting into angry tears.

Or throwing up, which was still a distinct possibility.

"He never used any protection," continued the nurse, her voice cracking for just a second before she cleared her throat and forced herself to continue, "That's why I asked for a full panel of STD's to be performed on her. Luckily, she'd had an IUD fitted a few months before being…being abducted. That, and sheer darn luck kept her from falling pregnant."

Lane felt her stomach twisting into tight knots again – that utter _bastard…_

She could swear to God that, if it were up to her, that man would be dead before morning came. She'd do it personally, and she'd enjoy pulling the trigger and watching the life drain out of him. Regrettably, that was not something she was allowed to do, even if he more than deserved it.

Their priority was Miss Babcock – she _had_ to be.

"Anything else I should know?" Lane rasped, head still in her hands.

"Her emotional state is frail," replied the nurse, feeling just as shaken and as disgusted as both the detective and the doctor, "I want her to be seen by a counsellor as soon as possible, and it is my recommendation that she is given medication to help her sleep and cope with her anxiety. For the time being, at least."

 _That goes without saying,_ Lane would have liked to say – she doubted sleep would come easy to Miss Babcock in the immediate future after having endured the horrors that she had. She needed emotional and medical support. Urgently.

"Have you got the report ready?" Lane asked the nurse, finally looking up – she'd planned on interviewing Miss Babcock, but she would not make her recount any of what had happened to her again. It was unnecessary, and she wanted to let her rest.

"I…I have written everything down for you, Detective Lane," replied the nurse, handing over her notes to the police officer, "All the biological evidence has already been labelled and was sent to be analysed – I believe you will be able to get the results and the evidence in just a few short hours."

Lane nearly scoffed out loud at that. The next few hours were going to feel anything but short.

And it would all be made worse by knowing that Thomas would eventually wake up, notice how long Miss Babcock had been gone, and realise that he had to get out of there before anybody came after him.

If it were up to Lane, she'd hunt him all her days and nights unto the ends of the Earth, but unfortunately her jurisdiction only covered New York. But they'd pass the information on to every department in every state that they could, just in case the bastard tried to skip more than just town.

He wouldn't get away forever. It was something she kept telling herself. And if it came down to the real possibility that the scumbag had taken off, she'd tell it to Miss Babcock, too.

The woman deserved to know that she was safe, and that nobody was ever going to touch her like that again. Too many people were on her side, and would protect her before it could happen.

"Fair enough," said the detective, getting to her feet – she had heard enough as it was, and now she had to go and actually meet the woman she'd looked for during eight whole months. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I will see to Miss Babcock."

She turned on her heel with that, crossing the room in two big strides. But, just as she arrived at the door, she heard the nurse calling after her.

"Detective, wait!" said Joanne, getting to her feet as well.

"What is it?" replied Lane, her foot tapping impatiently against the ground. She really hoped that the nurse had something valuable to add, otherwise she'd have wasted precious seconds that could have been spent getting to Miss Babcock. She needed to hear her name the bastard who'd hurt her – only then would she be able to send her men chasing after him.

"Look, I…I gave Miss Babcock a sedative," said the nurse, pursing her lips, "She…she needed to rest, and given her emotional state it was more than obvious that sleep wouldn't come without a little help. I'd suggest you don't try to ask her any big questions right now; she won't be able to answer them coherently."

Lane groaned – well, that was just perfect, wasn't it? She didn't blame the nurse for having given C.C. a little help to fall asleep, but it had come at an inconvenient time! She had to pray to any and every deity out there for her to have the strength to tell her the name of the culprit, if nothing else.

"I won't," Lane said, "But now, I must hurry – thank you for all you've done!"

She rushed out without waiting for a reply, covering the short meters that separated her from Miss Babcock's room in mere seconds. She only slowed her pace to knock at Miss Babcock's door, which she gently opened, trying hard not to startle the producer.

"Miss Babcock, this is Chief Detective Christine La–"

 _Oh, dear God…_

She couldn't help halting in her tracks, both verbally and physically. A part of her wondered how somebody without training would've dealt with what she saw the moment she walked in.

The simple answer was that they wouldn't have.

How could they? It was completely understandable when Miss Babcock was deathly pale, skin and bones around her face (Lane couldn't see most of her, because of all the blankets and the new set of pyjamas she was wearing), and had a cast over her obviously broken wrist.

The poor woman was too weak to even sit up in bed...

Not that Lane really wanted her to sit up - the producer needed all the rest she could get, so as long as they could conduct the interview and get the bastard's name confirmed, Lane would be satisfied enough to let her get some sleep.

But first she had to swallow that hesitation she'd first had when she'd seen the condition Miss Babcock was in.

So, she cleared her throat and tried again, "I'm Chief Detective Lane. I'd like to ask you a few short questions, if you're feeling up to it?"

She wouldn't blame the woman if she wasn't - she couldn't tell if she'd even fully understood, given the sedative. But she knew she had to give it a shot.

They couldn't afford to waste time, if it could be spared.

"...'m sorry…?" mumbled the producer, lightly screwing her tired face, "Wha…who are you?"

"Chief Detective Chistine Lane," repeated the officer, "I have been looking for you for the past eight months, Miss Babcock."

Lane held her breath as the producer's drugged (if tired) mind tried to make sense of what was being said to her. It almost felt like a losing battle, given how close she was to nodding off, but Lane had to keep trying. Again, she would not pressure her (she knew it would be counterproductive and could upset the producer, which was the last thing she wanted to do), but she would insist a little.

"…lookin' for me…?" slurred C.C., squinting in Lane's direction.

"Yes, we looked for you for a long, long time," said Lane, itching to come a few steps closer to Miss Babcock but deciding against it – she didn't know how comfortable she'd be with being in close proximity to another human being, considering what had happened. "Can you tell me where were you? Who took you?"

Again, silence. A long, tense silence. So much so Lane briefly wondered if Miss Babcock had finally fallen asleep. It was a more than frustrating notion, but one she had no choice but to accept, if that was the ca–

A sudden, anguished cry from Miss Babcock interrupted Lane´s train of thought and sent her into a panic – something was wrong with Miss Babcock, and most likely she'd caused it!

The feeling only worsened when the producer attempted to kick her covers off and to sit up.

"I…I gotta…gotta hide!" C,C, mumbled, frantically fussing with the sheets, which had tangled around her legs, "He's…he's comin' – he'll get me!"

A feeling quite like terror and guilt mixed together surfaced and spread in Lane's chest. She hadn't meant to make Miss Babcock upset - she'd just needed to ask!

But she couldn't let herself get into a panic - not when Miss Babcock was already in one! No matter what, she was still the priority!

She had to be, when that bastard was still out there somewhere, and the thought was clearly terrifying to the producer.

Lane had to do something, and fast.

She didn't want to try and grab at the producer – between her moving so quickly the detective could end up accidentally grabbing her broken wrist, and the fact that the producer was on the point of being so out of it that she could think somebody else was trying to restrain her.

Getting it right was going to require more gentle tactics than just that, but it would still have to be done to stop her from getting up and ripping out her IV line...

Lane also spotted an opportunity to ask a very important question at the same time, which she was going to try and take.

"No one's coming right now, Miss Babcock," she said calmly and firmly, taking her as best she could by the shoulders to make sure the woman stayed in bed, before adding the question that could end it, once and for all. "Who do you think is coming?"

If she could just get her to say it - just to let the name out, even once, that would be enough to get on the phone and get her men moving out. They already knew where the bastard lived, they just had to go and pick him up...!

As long as he was still there. If not, they'd patrol the streets until they caught him. Lane didn't care how long it took, just as long as it got done!

And all it would take were the correct two words from the producer's tired and drugged lips.

Tired and drugged lips that were rapidly becoming part of a completely tearful face...

"He's comin'! He'll be here and then...then he'll get me...!"

Trying not to groan with any amount of frustration (she'd gritted her teeth to stop it from happening), Lane tried again.

"Who is coming, Miss Babcock?" she asked. It was more productive than simply getting impatient with the producer for not answering.

The poor woman had been through enough already. But they were so close to finding out everything...!

"Who is coming?" she insisted. "If you tell me, I could help you find them before they find you…"

Not that the detective would allow it – no, no one was going to get to this woman if she had anything to do with it. The only ones who would, were her family and friends. No more harm would come Miss Babcock's way, and that was a promise.

She'd been through enough pain as it was, and Lane still felt incredibly guilty for what had been done to Miss Babcock. She'd beaten herself up over the fact that she hadn't been able to find Miss Babcock in all that time. It had taken the woman jumping off the roof in the middle of a snowstorm for her to come back home, and it was not thanks to Lane.

Miss Babcock had shown true nerve and an ironclad will to survive, and for that (and many more things) Lane had a deep admiration for the producer. She'd met formidable individuals before, but this one…

 _This one_ took the cookie.

Still, Lane was not naïve – the road to recovery would be a long and difficult one, but she trusted Miss Babcock would be provided with all the support and resources she'd need to heal.

And there was a very special butler who'd wanted nothing more than to find her again. He was the first person she'd call, once Miss Babcock had named the culprit. If she knew the man, he'd be there like a shot. But again, she first needed to say those ever so important words – two words that would allow her to apprehend the monster that had done this to her.

"Please, Miss Babcock!" insisted the detective, trying hard not to scream – Miss Babcock had dissolved into tears; she didn't want her to be any more upset. "Tell me who did thi–"

"Thomas Jones!"

The noise – the name, finally spoken aloud – was followed by straight silence. There was no other reaction to be had, for what had just happened.

She'd done it. She'd finally gotten her to say the name! They'd done it, and they had their culprit!

The bastard had finally been named, and Lane now couldn't wait until he had to stand up in court and state it in front of a judge and jury!

But there were priorities, obviously - they had to catch him first. Now that they'd named him, all Lane had to do was make a call to get proceedings rolling. That would hopefully snowball into an arrest, the trial she longed to see and give evidence in, and a jail sentence that saw the bastard rot.

But even before then, the producer was in desperate need of some sleep. Settling in again would probably go a long way to calming her back down.

Not that Lane couldn't also help, in that regard. After all, she'd inadvertently caused this outburst in the first place.

She stopped holding onto the still-sobbing producer quite as hard as she had been, and instead began shushing her and trying to tuck her blankets back around her sides.

"It's okay now, Miss Babcock! You did it – you told us who he is! We're gonna find him and we're gonna take him away so he can't get you. It's all over, and you're gonna be okay. In fact, how about you go to sleep for a little while? Get some rest, and we can talk more in the morning."

The producer didn't look entirely convinced that she was being told the truth (not that Lane blamed her for being distrusting), but luckily for the both of them, the sedative chose that exact moment to take its full effect, and C.C. drifted into unconsciousness with relative ease.

Lane couldn't thank the heavens enough for that.

She had to take a moment to sit down – she perched on the side of Miss Babcock's bed and let her head hang down, arms resting comfortably on her thigs. She had a thick skin – ironclad, some would say – but this case had gotten under it.

She was drained – emotionally so. But Miss Babcock was back. That's what mattered. She only had two more phone calls to make: to her men and to Niles.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back, delved into her pocket for her phone and quickly dialled in her lieutenant numbers – the moment she'd been informed about Miss Babcock having been found, she'd told him to have everything ready to dash to Thomas' house the moment C.C. said his name.

"Jeffords?" she barked into the phone, "Get moving – it was him."

Having set all that up already turned out to be a fantastic plan. Jeffords and the others waiting were raring to go get the bastard just as much as she was, and the conversation didn't have to last much longer after that.

The next call, Lane thought, was going to have a very different feel to it. But it would be a beautiful thing, to see Niles and Miss Babcock finally reunited, both safe and one recovering well.

Not that she could sit there thinking about it. So, she looked back at her phone and dialled in a new number.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 21**

He slammed the phone down hard in his urgency, but he was already so dizzy and weak from reeling from the news that he thought it might topple over – and he could very well go with it!

He didn't know anyone on Earth who could blame him – Detective Lane had just called, declaring that Miss Babcock had been found!

Found. Alive. Not well, but _alive_. He had thought (and said on the phone) that he could live with that – more than live with that! All he had cared about was the fact that she was alive and that she had been taken to a hospital!

A hospital, where he could get on his way and visit – right that instant!

That was when Lane told him that she wasn't just in any ward, with other patients waiting to receive visits from friends and family (not that he'd count in Miss Babcock's mind as either). They'd transferred her directly to the ICU, and she was receiving treatment from there.

And the more they got into talking, the more that knowledge wouldn't let him rest over what the producer was being treated for.

She had to be hurt. How badly had she been hurt? Were there wounds, or bruises? Was she sick, perhaps?! She could have caught more than a chill! How had they found her on such a dreadful night (he hadn't asked, he'd been too thrilled that it'd happened to ask how)?! Had she gone there herself or had someone dumped her outside and gone?!

Had the person who'd done that been arrested yet?!

Was Miss Babcock going to be alright?!

He needed to get over there. He needed to see her for himself, to either confirm everything or to put his mind at ease. Luckily for him, the Sheffield mansion was only a few blocks away from Lennox Hill – he only needed to get dressed, grab his wallet and car keys, and get going.

He didn't even think about waking the Sheffields or calling Miss Babcock's parents as he tossed on the first shirt and pair of trousers he found in his closet. His every thought was on C.C., and about what he would find the moment he walked into her room. Part of him was expecting her to scream at him; demand that he go and call him names. He would deserve it (even if Stewart thought otherwise) if that was the case. He just wanted to see her with his own two eyes – make sure that she truly was back, if you will.

Then, he would leave, if that was what Miss Babcock wanted. He'd apologise to her, and then he would go.

He stuck his feet into his loafers, pocketed his wallet and car keys and rushed downstairs, straight to Mr Sheffield's Volvo. He stepped on the gas the moment the engine was on, and hurtled down the street, towards the hospital. He couldn't care less about respecting the speed limit, he'd pay for a speeding ticket, if it came down to that. He had to get to Miss Babcock, as fast as humanly possible.

Luckily for him (and probably because the weather was so wretched) he found a parking spot almost in front of the hospital, and he was soon stumbling his way to the hospital's entrance, not even caring to lock the car. Nothing else mattered but getting to Miss Babcock, not even ensuring the safety of a car that cost more than what he earned in two years.

He didn't stop at the reception desk to ask for directions – no, he ran all the way to the ICU, following the signs as he went. Lane had given him the number of Miss Babcock's hospital room, so the moment he finally arrived at the unit, he made a beeline for room 205. Lane was at the door, too, waiting for him – she looked like she had not slept a wink.

He didn't blame her for that. She'd probably been here the moment the hospital called for her, and that could've been any time during the night for all he knew.

"It really didn't take you long at all," she called out to him as he got close.

Niles shook his head, still walking forward eagerly, "I came as fast as I could. Where is–"

Lane was in front of him and halting him in his tracks before he could even so much as look up at the room door. Niles couldn't help but feel a little bit put out by that - she'd called him there to see Miss Babcock, hadn't she?

Or was something wrong? The look on Lane's face suggested there was, and that sent his heart into his throat...

"I have to warn you, seeing her is not gonna be easy," she said seriously. "She's in...more than a bad shape."

More than a bad shape? Niles had been expecting and imagining injuries, each more horrible than the last and all of them inflicted painfully, but what could Lane possibly mean by " _more than a bad shape_ "?!

How bad was it?! Was he on the verge of being too late?!

"I need to get in there," he said quickly, trying to step around the detective.

Lane registered his growing panic and pursed her lips, stopping him again, "You will. But don't get too close or make any sudden movements. She was...beaten and abused, extensively, and...well, it's made her averse to contact."

The words beaten and abused felt like twin bricks being hurled at him, slamming into him over and over again as they repeated in his head.

He wished they were real bricks, so someone could beat him to death for what he'd done.

He'd done this to her...he'd gotten her beaten, and caused her pain, without having to do more than lift a finger and say a few words!

But there was something else lingering in Lane's words, too - almost as though she was trying to avoid telling him...

His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he thought about it, "What do you mean, "extensively"?"

Lane let out a breath through her nose, running a hand through her hair in a distressed fashion. Again, it looked like she was trying to avoid telling him...

That just made the butler impatient, "Lane…"

"She was...raped, Niles," the detective admitted at last. "She was beaten, starved, and regularly raped."

Raped...

That was when his misery stopped cold, and started to heat up. And it heated, until his blood was boiling in his veins.

Someone – some cold, calculating, evil bastard of a person – had forced himself on her! Beat her, starved her, and...and...

Niles couldn't even think it! He was barely on the verge of thinking straight at all! He'd kill whoever had done this – he didn't care if he got life or sentenced to death by firing squad, he knew that he would end the life of the scum who had hurt Miss Babcock that way!

They'd deserve all the pain he'd cause them before the end, too. He wouldn't let them go quickly or quietly, and there would be more pain there than they had ever imagined in their lives!

All he needed was for Lane to confirm what he suspected. Then he would go out looking, and he wouldn't come back until there was blood on his hands.

"Who did it?" he asked Lane, shaking with rage and stepping forward all the time. "Was it that Jones?! I'll kill him right now! Where is he?! Have you or your department got him yet?! Did he do this or are you-"

"Niles, calm yourself!" Lane warned, standing her ground and not moving an inch. "You're not here about that. You're not going to kill anybody. You're here to see Miss Babcock, aren't you? No matter what that entails?"

They stared at each other in a kind of tense stand-off; Lane clearly but silently urging him to think it through, Niles wanting nothing more than for her to give up the information so he could go kill this man himself.

He stood there, nearly hyperventilating in front of her. He wanted to scream at her for stopping him. The pig he wanted to butcher deserved everything that was coming to him and more – couldn't she see that?! Didn't she want him to get his comeuppance, and for there to be justice for Miss Babcock?!

"Just breathe," Lane said quietly. "And think it through. My men are out there looking for him now. You don't have to get involved in that. But you do have to be involved here."

The longer he waited, the more Niles was forced to think through what Lane was saying.

Her men were already out there, getting ready to arrest the scumbag. He couldn't go and interfere with that, as much as in an ideal world he would like to swoop in and beat the man in front of them...

And she was...right. He wasn't there, at that hospital, for revenge. Not even if it would be sweet, and just, and could potentially end the life of a terrible person (if he deserved to be called a person).

He'd come there, dressed so speedily that he'd put on two mismatched socks and hadn't told anybody he was going, and none of it was so he could find and kill the bastard, no matter how much he deserved it and no matter how much he would still like to.

He'd done it because he wanted to see Miss Babcock.

No matter what it entailed.

He sighed then, the anger still burning away inside but not so openly and fiercely now, and he stepped down and away from Lane, "I'm...sorry."

The detective nodded in understanding, and gently patted him on the arm, before turning and showing him through the door into Miss Babcock's room.

Niles felt his insides clench and tie into knots as he went through the door.

And when he saw Miss Babcock sleeping in the room's lone hospital bed, he thought he could weep.

There she was, thin from the starvation Lane had told him about, covered almost entirely by blankets to shield her from the cold her pale skin gave away that she'd been exposed to, the only part of her uncovered apart from her head being...

A clearly broken wrist, held securely within a cast...

Niles felt his stomach give a churn, and the anger was coming back again. How could it not, when all he could think was that that had been something the bastard had done to her?

Just another infliction he'd caused on the list of things Miss Babcock had had to suffer, at the hands of a man who should be dead...

Would be dead, as soon as Niles found him.

"Niles, breathe," Lane insisted in a whisper, having noticed Niles' breathing had suddenly stopped the moment his eyes had found Miss Babcock. "She needs peace and quiet — you can do that for her, can't you?"

Niles knew he had to say yes, even if, deep within, he felt like he could not be of use to Miss Babcock in any shape or form after what he'd done to her. Had he closed his stupid, useless mouth, she would have never left the hospital that day, and she wouldn't have been taken and subjected to...to...

Niles couldn't even bring himself to say the words in his head.

All he knew, was that she was hurt beyond measure, and it was, in part, thanks to him.

"I...I don't know," he eventually rasped, hands clenched into tight fists, "But I'll try. For her."

That was just what Lane wanted to hear, so very gently he wrapped an arm around Niles' shoulders and helped him to the chair next to C.C.'s bed. He hadn't said it, but Niles needed to sit down. The shock of seeing Miss Babcock like this was difficult to bear. She knew so from experience.

"Listen," she said sternly, using the no-nonsense voice she usually reserved for interrogations or for chastising her own children. "She's gone through hell, Niles – the last thing she needs is you bailing on her because you'd much rather be fighting Jones. Your place is here, with her. Let us deal wi—"

Lane's phone going off like an annoyed rattlesnake interrupted the detective mid-sentence, making both butler and detective jump. They both couldn't help glancing over at where Miss Babcock slept, seemingly (and thankfully) undisturbed by the shrill ring of the mobile phone. The last thing they wanted was for her to be woken up when she clearly needed rest.

If anything, she shifted in the bed a little, releasing a faint moan as she did so.

The sedative was clearly doing its job.

And Lane, she quickly reminded herself, had to do hers.

In mere seconds, the detective scooped the little contraption out of her pocket, flipped it open and spoke — barked — into it.

"Lane," she said, trying to keep her voice down for Miss Babcock's sake. "Ah, Jeffords! Has the bastard been booked in already?"

There was a small pause then, during which Lane listened intently to what her best lieutenant was telling her. Niles would have given anything to listen in on what they were saying (if he got wind of were Thomas was being kept, he'd be there in a jiffy), but Lane conveniently gave a few steps away from him.

Actually, she straight-up left the room, her tired face having screwed up into the deepest, most worried-looking frown Niles had seen on her since he'd first met her.

Something clearly wasn't right.

Niles barely noticed when his body sprung out of the chair and dashed behind Lane; it was moving on autopilot, as it often did when it was in a stressful situation.

He caught up with her just in time to hear the end of the rushed conversation.

"...I'm on my way — make sure no one touches anything until I get there," the detective said as she rushed to the exit, Niles in tow. "I want all units to be alerted of this, did you hear me, Jeffords?!"

There was another short pause while Jeffords clearly replied that it would be done (Niles couldn't imagine anybody on her team disagreeing and living to hear about it), before Lane got the chance to speak again.

"Good. We'll have a ton of evidence in there," another short pause. But not because of something Jeffords said – that time it was because Lane had to give a sigh and a frustrated groan? "Pity we don't have the bastard to complete the set."

Niles felt as though a bucket of ice water had been dropped over him. He even started to shake, to accompany it.

So, they hadn't managed to snag the scumbag after all! Lane's reassurances that they'd find him hadn't actually come true whatsoever!

What were they supposed to do now?! The bastard could be anywhere! He could be anywhere and he was probably already thinking up his next move as to how to snatch Miss Babcock again!

Not that he wouldn't have to go through Niles first. And the butler knew that he'd sooner be dead on the ground than let Thomas win.

That scumbag had already thought he'd won before, it wasn't going to happen again.

And Niles was determined to prove it. He walked the last little distance to where Lane had paced over to (and was busy hanging up her phone), ready to demand to know what was going to happen, and ready to kill Thomas the moment that "something" successfully came to pass.

He was also ready to essentially become Lane's shadow until something was done and the bastard had been caught.

Well, half of him was. The other half was ready to stay at Miss Babcock's side until either she or the Lord God Almighty ordered him to leave. Doctors and nurses, the police - hell, he could be threatened with being thrown into a pit of lions and he'd refuse to budge an inch!

That was the kind of resolve he intended to have on hand as he spoke up to the detective.

"What's going to happen?" he asked quickly. Time was wasting and the scumbag could be anywhere. "I know they couldn't find him, but what happens now?!"

Lane was probably not surprised by his reaction, which would explain why she didn't take a step back, even if other people might have done. She was used to other peoples' anger.

And she knew that any threats made were not threats made against her.

"We're going to search Thomas' house," she instead explained as calmly as she could. "We think there will be more than enough evidence there to convict him. It's just a...pity...that we haven't got him to wrap this all up in a neat little bow!"

The word "pity" had practically been spat, but it had been necessary because she didn't want to launch into the tirade she could have had instead. She was on the brink of punching a wall, too. As much as she had dealt with other cases that had made her angry before, this one was different. It felt different, in her heart and in her gut.

She'd never hated a suspect as much as she hated Thomas. The bastard had danced around them as though he were some sort if taunting court jester, doing everything he was to keep himself entertained.

And all at the expense of their investigation, and the happiness and safety of one innocent woman.

Well, not anymore. The woman he'd tried to keep from them forever was a mere room away, now. She'd gotten out, made her way (heroically, Lane thought) to somewhere that she could be helped, and now, it was his turn to scramble for his life.

Not that they were going to let him escape. He was going to know, better than anyone Lane had ever arrested, warned, or even come into contact with in this profession, that at the end of the day, there was only going to be one person locked up in a cell.

And it wasn't going to be C.C. Babcock.

It was going to be the most glorious feeling, when she got to look Thomas Jones, kidnapper, rapist and all-around arrogant asshole, in the eyes and then tell the sergeant behind him to lead him away by his cuffs...

But they had to find him, first. They couldn't come so close, only for the final piece of the puzzle to slip away!

For C.C.'s own peace of mind, as well as their own and their jobs, they had to do everything they could.

"Now," Lane said, pointing over her shoulder, "you go back to that room and stay with her. Call her family. Tell them she's home. okay?"

Niles wanted to say no - he did not wish to go back into the room, he wanted to go after Thomas; hunt him down until he could get his hands on the bastard and beat the living shit out of him.

But again, he knew that that wasn't possible (for the time being). His place was next to Miss Babcock until she told him otherwise, and if that meant stepping aside to let Lane and her men do their work, he would do so.

"Okay," huffed the butler, "I'll see to her now. But Lane, promise me one thing..."

"Anything, Niles," replied the police officer.

He nearly hesitated when he thought of what he wanted to ask, but he managed to get it out before the weight of everything crushed him entirely.

"When...when you're done checking the...place where it happened, take me with you," he told her, his eyes now on hers and holding steady. "If I don't see it, my imagination will drive me insane..."

It was already doing that, to some extent. He couldn't help but have flashes of the worst pictures his mind had ever come up with, every time he thought about that house. Each and every single one was worse than the last, too.

They made him want to break down and weep, or kill Thomas, or both. And even if he knew he'd want the bastard dead no matter what, he didn't want to have to think about the...acts...anymore.

Lane felt her heart turn heavy at his request. She knew exactly what he was talking about - after years of seeing so many crime scenes, she'd seen the worst of what humanity could offer. But civilians didn't have to. They weren't allowed to, and that was complicated in itself...

But she also knew not knowing left room for nightmarish fantasy to creep in...

He'd be left tortured with wondering, and he wouldn't even be able to help himself. The pictures would come up uninvited - like the real pictures did for her, sometimes.

She did hesitate before she gave her answer.

"Well...it's breaking every rule in the book...but I'm going to make an exception," she said. "I think you need to see it."

Niles felt like he could burst into tears (out of relief that his frustration would be quelled, as well as fear for what he'd actually see), but instead of letting that happen, he nodded stiffly.

Not that he didn't let cracks shine through when he spoke and his voice nearly gave way, "Thank you..."

Lane couldn't exactly manage a smile, but she put a hand on his upper arm and squeezed reassuringly.

"It's alright. We'll catch the bastard, and then it'll all be over for good," she said, before quickly glancing at her watch. "But I have to get back to my precinct. I have to give a little debriefing before we go kick a door in."

Niles nodded, hoping Thomas' face was just the other side of said door. But he knew he'd have to wait and find out, and he also knew that he'd much rather find out after he'd been sat a while longer with Miss Babcock.

She was back, and real, and he wasn't going to leave her by herself ever again. On whatever honour he had left, considering what he'd done before.

So, saying a farewell to Detective Lane, he turned away from where she was turning to leave, and went back into the room.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 22**

" _Where Do We Go From Here?"_

The shrill sound of the phone ringing woke Stewart up. He'd become a light sleeper, as it was, but the piercing sound would have been hard to miss even if he hadn't been one. It cut through the silence with brutal force, demanding immediate attention. He'd grown to both dread and long hearing it ring – bad news, good news; he had no way of knowing which one it would be until he'd picked it up.

Usually it was the latter, but one could only live in hope, however dim it might be.

He grunted in his effort, but he eventually managed to pull himself out of bed, always taking care not to wake up a sleeping B.B.. He blinked hard, trying to get his eyes to focus and locate the source of the offending noise within their shared room. The landline, as usual, lay atop one of B.B.'s expensive chest of drawers. He remembered when she'd first bought them, back when she'd been pregnant with C.C. – he'd thought them to possibly be the ugliest chest of drawers he'd ever seen.

But then again, since he had but a faint fingerhold on what constituted tasteful décor, he'd said nothing and had let his wife rule her little kingdom in peace. He'd always indulged her when she was pregnant, and if the price to pay for her happiness was allowing her to get ugly furniture for their home, then he was more than willing to pay it.

With a sigh, Stewart lumbered to the phone, heart heavy in his chest. He wasn't holding out hope for getting any good news – nobody called in the dead of the night to share it. It was more often than not a case of bad news being shared.

Still, good or bad, he wanted – needed – to know.

"Stewart Babcock speaking," he rasped into the phone, rubbing his tired face.

"She's back, sir," a very familiar Brit said from the other end of the line, "Your daughter's back."

If it hadn't been for the sudden tightness in his chest, and the fact that Niles had spoken so calmly and clearly (despite his own obvious happiness and relief at the news and at being able to tell it), then Stewart didn't think he'd have believed what he'd just heard.

C.C...Niles had said that she was back...!

And even if part of Stewart's brain wanted to doubt and say that they didn't know for sure it was really her, it couldn't stay as pessimistic as it wanted to be, when the rest of his body started to warm up. Niles wouldn't lie about this. And he most definitely wouldn't call them up in the middle of the night to do it! He was a good, honourable man – he'd never go so far as doing something so callous and wrong.

That meant it had to be true. They were getting their daughter back! Their C.C. was coming home!

And Stewart felt his breathing speed up and overtake the breath of air that came in through the ajar bedroom window (as fresh as New York air could be), as his heart started to pound out of his chest.

"You...you really mean it...?!" The question was automatic, even though it was obvious that of course he meant it. Again, Niles would never lie to them about this!

And he definitely didn't disappoint in his reply, either.

"Of course I mean it, sir! She's in hospital right now, and...well, could be here for a while, but she's safe."

Stewart let out an involuntary cry (it definitely woke B.B. up, but he would've done it anyway the moment the call was over). Their girl was alive! Injured, from the sounds of things, and that flipped his stomach over until he turned nauseous, but he had to keep telling himself that it was far, far better than the alternative.

They'd have her back. Their little girl would be home again, and by God, she'd never be let out of the sight of any of them!

They had to get down there! The call had woken him up enough that he knew he could drive, even in the weather outside (he thought he could take part in the Indy 500, with how sobering it was!).

They had to see their girl, hold her and talk to her. Right then and now. Or, as close to now as they could make it.

"Where?" his voice nearly broke on the question, as his eyes got close to tears. "Which hospital?"

"Lennox Hill, sir," replied the butler.

Stewart could have done a backflip right then and there – his child was only a forty-minute drive away! He simply had to get dressed and hop on the car, and sooner than he'd have known, he'd be with her. They'd be with her, he corrected himself as he glanced over at B.B.. She had not gotten out of bed yet, but she was clearly listening to everything that he was saying and would no doubt demand answers the moment he hang up the phone.

"We'll be there as soon as possible," he told Niles, "Tell her we'll get dressed and get go–"

"I am afraid I can't do that, sir," Niles cut in, having interrupted Stewart mid-sentence.

Stewart frowned – why couldn't he do that? He was there with C.C., wasn't he? He would have thought Niles capable of delivering simple message!

"How come?" asked the businessman, "Is there any problem?"

The short silence that followed his question served as his ominous answer.

"Niles?" insisted Stewart, worry permeating his words, "What's going on there? Is she okay?"

"She is in the ICU, sir," Niles said with a sigh, "She…she's currently asleep – they've given her a sedative. I…I really don't think this is a matter to be discussed over the phone."

Stewart's stomach was back in knots immediately.

The ICU?! And a sedative?! Why hadn't he said so?! When he'd said that C.C. was hurt, he'd imagined some cuts and bruises – maybe some broken bones, too – but this made it sound like she was really badly hurt!

They had to get over there and find out what was going on, right away! Their girl needed them!

"No, it isn't," Stewart said quickly, already looking around for clothes to throw on. "We'll be there in a moment, Niles – is Detective Lane with you?"

"She had to get back to the station. She asked me to stay with your daughter."

Stewart was sure it was a job Niles didn't mind doing. But he'd be able to go and get some rest as soon as they got there.

Got there, and found out what the hell was going on.

"Alright," the businessman nodded, even if the butler couldn't see him do it. "We'll get dressed and be on our way. See you soon, Niles."

"See you soon, sir."

Stewart hung up the phone after that, very quickly mentally reminding himself to again insist that Niles call him by his first name, once they'd gotten to the hospital and assessed the situation.

He deserved to be treated like an equal. Especially after everything he'd done.

B.B. was sat bolt-upright in bed when Stewart turned to look, her face riddled with unspoken questions and worries. She'd obviously gotten some sort of an idea as to what the conversation was about, but she didn't know all the details yet.

But he could stop looking for his shirt for a moment, in order to hurry over, sit on the edge of the bed and tell her.

"They...they found C.C.," he said, and it felt good to say aloud, despite the fears in his stomach over what condition she was in. "She's in the ICU at Lenox Hill. She's alive, B.B., and she's safe...!"

It was B.B.'s turn to let out an involuntary cry at that.

Hospital...alive...safe... She never thought she'd see her daughter again, much less with any of those words attached! She'd been waiting and dreading the day that somebody phoned to tell her there was nothing more to be done – that they'd found a body, and her daughter wasn't coming home...!

But she would come home. As soon as she was well. B.B. didn't care if she was in the ICU – she wouldn't be, eventually! She'd get better and come back to them!

And it was this thought, accompanied by the overwhelming relief in her heart, that set her throwing herself into Stewart's arms, weeping.

Stewart gladly held her in return, feeling a relieved smile break out over his face. B.B. wasn't going to spend any more nights crying into the darkness, fearing the worst for their girl and her safety, and their whole family could come back together again.

They could have the Christmas that they'd missed, in the month just gone. There wouldn't be an empty seat at the table (there would even be an extra one for Niles, for everything that he'd done, if he could make it), or shadows hanging all around the house and making it feel as big and empty as their lives had felt...

Neither of them had ever been anything but rich. However, Stewart supposed that this must've been what winning the lottery felt like. In an instant, it was as though practically every problem they'd ever had no longer existed. And, if it still did, it would go away sooner rather than later. There was only a bright, brand-new future ahead.

Whatever had happened with their daughter, it was over. They'd see that she got whatever she needed.

He kept telling himself that, to combat the awful reality of what could've happened that C.C. might need treatment for. His mind could only offer the most awful of imaginings, and it was starting to turn the very thought that his girl was back sour.

He couldn't let that happen. They'd been praying for this; wishing, hoping, and working towards whatever they could do to get her back again. And he knew he'd rather have her back, alive and safe with them, than not at all.

But they needed to get to the hospital. Even if the fears came back about what state she could be in, or how she'd seem when she talked or moved, they needed to be with her.

B.B., especially.

He nudged her head with his gently, and started to rub his hand up and down her back as he murmured.

"Shall we go see her?"

B.B. couldn't let go of him – she was clearly too overwhelmed for that – but she did manage to nod her head, wordlessly and enthusiastically.

Stewart felt himself managing another smile again, brighter and warmer than the last. It was like the sunshine he was imagining they'd be able to take C.C. out into, and spend happy days again as a family. Once this nightmare was all firmly in the past, of course.

It wasn't done yet. They had to go to their girl first, let her know that they were there. And, this time, no one was going away again, for any reason.

Rubbing B.B.'s back some more, Stewart nodded into her shoulder and started to get up, "Alright, then. Let's go see our girl. Can you manage, or do you need my help getting dressed?"

Slowly releasing her hold on him, B.B. sniffed as she shook with the overwhelming adrenaline, "I...I can do it...I can manage...!"

"Alright, we'll go see her," Stewart felt his heart grow warm as he watched her start to get up, and together they began to dress as quickly as they could.

Neither wanted to waste a single moment.

It was the liveliest Stewart had seen B.B. in so long, he almost felt his fears of what could be waiting for them drift away. But he knew he had to be realistic, too. C.C. had been gone for so long, so much was bound to have happened, and she had to have been...affected by it all. They'd deal with that when the time came. What mattered was that they were there.

And even without speaking to one another about it, Stewart and B.B. both knew that, in terms of being there and providing support, they'd never let their daughter down again.

The silence that stretched between them was almost electric – both parents were buzzing with excitement as they rushed all over the room, hastily getting ready to go. Clothes were already on, so the only thing left for them to do was bundle up in their warmest winter gear, grab keys and wallets and then they'd be off.

They'd be taking the Range Rover, that was for certain. Stewart didn't want to chance them having an accident due to the inclement weather when they were so close to being reunited with the daughter they thought lost forever.

When they were ready, the two Babcocks rushed out of the room, not caring to turn off the lights or the heating, and soon they were jumping into their vehicle. They could feel both of their hearts hammering in their chests and the blood pulsing through their veins. It was a foreign feeling, being alive. They had missed it in the last few months. Everything around them – colours, sounds, sights… it seemed more real. More vivid. Even the air they were breathing felt different. They hadn't noticed, but up until recently they might as well have been drowning.

Sorrow can do that to a person.

Stewart felt las if he were invincible. Made of steel. He was struggling not to go over the speed limit as it was; he had to remind himself over and over again that he'd be of no use if he was dead or injured. He cared little for speeding tickets, but he did intend to keep himself and his wife alive and safe until they got to Lennox Hill.

He intended to do everything he could to keep his family safe now. Even the tiniest, most trivial things would be taken into account - nothing would be spared, if it made certain to do something that kept them all together.

He wasn't going to do anything that could end up in somebody being taken away again.

That included taking extra care in the car. He'd never been so keen to obey the rules of the road before, which was something new to him - most often, he got irritated at the fact that he had to let New York's traffic act as a natural speed reduction.

The police were going to love him, and for all of their hard work, he felt like it was the least that he could do.

He could probably scare up a large, generous donation to the service as well. But that would happen on another day, when he hadn't just spent forty minutes squinting out into the awful weather from the car, trying his best to concentrate on the road and not get distracted by thoughts of what state their daughter could be in.

It was a mostly silent journey. Stewart didn't try to bring anything else up because he knew it wouldn't stick, and he didn't accidentally want to project his fears onto B.B..

So, he kept it as calm and collected as he could, and before long (even though it felt like an age), they were looking for a parking space in front of the hospital.

The lights were on inside, but he didn't think he'd ever seen a hospital look so quiet...

It was...oddly peaceful. He hoped that C.C. could sense the peace the entire building seemed to radiate. She'd need that sense of security, the reassurance...

There was a space. It was mostly hidden by the piled-up snow, but there were a couple of other cars alongside, so it had to be one.

A little bit of careful manoeuvring later, and they were parked.

Steeling himself for the big moment with a deep breath, Stewart turned to look at B.B. again.

"Well, this is it. We should get inside and announce ourselves - Niles'll be here, and maybe we'll get to talk to Lane later, if she comes back from the station..."

He really hoped that she would. How else would they be able to thank the woman who'd given up practically all the hours of her day, for eight months solid, to see that their girl came back to them?

She deserved thanking. And they needed to know what happened next, so who better to ask?

His already spoken question was having an impact on B.B.. She'd been quiet and had mostly just stared ahead during the car ride, but knowing that they were finally going in and hearing his voice confirm it had snapped her eyes up with a kind of ready eagerness that he wouldn't have imagined possible only days ago.

It was nice to see. Like a little burst of sunshine breaking through storm-clouds.

"There's only one way to know if we will, isn't there?" she asked quietly, her voice still sounding almost on the verge of tears.

Stewart half-smiled. She was right - they'd been sat there hesitating for long enough. Their girl needed them and he couldn't let his own fears about how she was get in the way of what they had to do.

And, first and foremost, they had to be her parents. No matter what that meant.

He took B.B.'s hand briefly, squeezing it and kissing it, before releasing it and opening his door into a freezing blast of foul weather that would've made lesser men with more trivial destinations in mind recoil and refuse to leave the warmth of their homes and cars.

But Stewart wasn't a lesser man. He was a father, going to the side of his daughter, who needed him.

"Stay in the car, I'll come out and open it for you..."

B.B. could only nod in return. It must have been her nerves, getting the better of her again. Stepping outside meant getting a little bit closer to finding out what had happened to C.C. and it was hard to tell what that would be like yet.

Would it be just as bad as they'd feared? Worse?

One thing for sure, it wasn't going to be better. Life might've thrown them a curveball miracle by letting their daughter come home to them alive, but they couldn't possibly be lucky in everything.

Steward preferred not to think about it. Not for as long as he could, anyway. He'd much rather just see his girl.

And that involved undoing his seatbelt and stepping out of the car, into a cold wind so fierce he thought his blood might freeze, while the howling all around him sounded deafening.

It was like a choir of banshees, declaring that winter reigned there, when everyone else could only bunker down and pray for spring...

Trudging through the piles up snow and chilled to his innermost depths, Stewart made his way around to B.B.'s side, inviting her into his arms and coat so that they could share warmth on their way into the hospital.

As much as they could, anyway.

It felt like the longest walk of their lives, despite the fact that they could see the doors the entire time as they moved. Both wished that they could talk to one another on the way, but there was no point - they wouldn't be able to hear each other above the weather.

All they could do was give glances.

Encouraging. Scared. Determined. Apprehensive.

Back and forth they went, each showing the other how they felt in the simplest of terms and expressions, so close the snow couldn't blind them to it, and they continued with it all the way up until they almost fell through the hospital doors.

It would've been impossible not to; the way the blizzard had piled everything up made the lack of resistance once they were through the doors suddenly seem very different and odd.

It certainly caught the attention of one of the nurses, who must've assumed that they had an emergency on their hands - not that she was wrong, but she was directing her worry at the wrong person, in Stewart's mind. The woman hurried over as fast as she could, openly fretting and clearly prepared to call for a doctor.

"Oh, my goodness! Is everything okay?!" she looked them both over, checking for signs of injury. "Is someone hurt?!"

Someone was hurt, thought Stewart. But it wasn't him or B.B..

He tried to reassure the woman, but it came out as a desperate plea at the same time, "Please, Miss; we're not hurt at all, we're looking for our daughter - C.C. Babcock. We were told she's been admitted here! Do you know where she is?"

The nurse looked uncomfortable for a moment. It was a strange and slightly infuriating expression to have to read – had she heard about the case? Did she know something? Was she holding back on them because she wasn't allowed to talk about it?

Each thought passed through Stewart's head with increasing animosity and frustration. But before he could start to demand louder, or call for somebody else who might be able to tell them, the nurse spoke, shifting from foot to foot.

"I, um...I'm sorry, I hate to have to do this, but the hospital will need to see some sort of identification before we can let you in to see her," she explained, sounding a little like someone had just forced her to sit down in something cold and wet. "It's Detective Lane's orders, and a policy of ours..."

Both parents' reactions were different, but they meant the same thing; they didn't appreciate being delayed. All nervousness from before had fled them the minute they'd gotten through the door – it didn't matter, no matter what, their girl was coming home.

It didn't matter if their predictions were better, worse or the same as what she'd gone through. What mattered was helping her get past it, and continue to live her life.

B.B.'s first reaction was to allow her jaw to drop. This woman...this... nurse was going to just stand there in the way of two parents who thought they'd lost their child forever, all for the sake of a couple of identification cards?! They were clearly not deranged lunatics, out looking for a woman to drag away!

Couldn't she simply let them through, just this once?! As soon as C.C. saw them she'd know them, and then all the staff would see that they weren't a threat!

They just wanted to see their baby...

Stewart, on the other hand, felt like he was burning up inside like a forest fire at the mere thought of having to delay seeing their daughter, even for a few moments. But he didn't argue, and even put a hand on B.B.'s shoulder to stop her from trying (not that it would have been a long or particularly productive attempt at getting them in).

If it was Detective Lane who'd put the order in, she had a reason. And, no matter how much he hated having to wait around and start to dig through his wallet, he knew it would be better than trying to go in and ending up arrested.

The last thing they needed was another member of their family going away...

He looked up at the nurse with resolve on his face, "Drivers' license okay?"

The nurse replied affirmatively, and soon enough she had taken both Stewart and B.B.'s licenses away and was checking her computer to give the couple the all-clear. It didn't take her long to return, smiling apologetically.

"Here you are," she said, returning the Babcocks' ID's. "Now, Mr and Mrs Babcock, do you know how to get to the ICU?"

The couple replied that no, they didn't know how to get to the unit. They'd never been to Lennox Hill before, and they'd much rather not get lost in their attempt to get to their child. They knew of the hospital's prestige and professionalism, but at the same time they had little patience for any more delays.

After the nurse had given them clear instructions on how to get to C.C.'s room, the pair thanked her politely and went on their way, Stewart holding his wife close to him by wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Neither was strong without the other's support, both Babcocks knew this. They'd promised to stick together to get through this, and neither Stewart nor B.B. were about to go back on that promise.

It took them barely five minutes to make their way to the ICU, but by the time they were mere steps away from their daughter's door, both parents could barely tolerate the wait. They'd done more than enough waiting these past months, all the while not knowing if they would ever see their child again. They needed to see her, and they needed to see her now. That was the only way they would be able to shake the ghosts that haunted them every single day.

B.B. was the one who reached out for the handle. With a quick push, the door was open to both parents, who came face to face with their child.

Or what remained of her.

Stewart felt the only reason B.B. hadn't collapsed on the floor, weeping at the sight, was because she'd staggered a little first and he'd pulled her back, whimpering very slightly, into his hold.

If he was being truthful, holding onto his wife was the only reason he wasn't doing exactly that. B.B. was currently his rock to cling to in the worst of storms.

He'd just never once imagined that the storm would be their girl, motionless and clearly in a sleep so deep that another might imagine that she'd died in the night. But she wasn't dead – they could see shallow breathing, coming from this thin, clearly bruised and beaten (that word sent angry and desperate chills running straight through Stewart) woman, with her arm in a cast, who had once been...

No. Was still their daughter. No matter what had happened, they weren't going to act like she'd become somebody else just because of this! They'd wanted her back for so long, and they'd already said that it didn't matter how, as long as she was alive...

There she was. Alive. Hurting, probably both inside and out, and causing them to hurt like neither had ever experienced before in their lives. But she was there, nonetheless. They could even see Niles at her bedside, clearly keeping a vigil that had probably run into the hours by now, because he knew that she would wake up.

She was alive. And it gave him hope.

And that hope for life was what encouraged Stewart to take a step forward, closing the door (making Niles look up, at last, and to rise from his chair) as they stepped fully inside and bringing an upset B.B. with him.

"That's our baby...Stewart, that's our little girl...!"

She seemed on the verge of tears, which simply poured salt on the wounds in his insides by seeing C.C. as she was. But he was determined to ignore it.

For his daughter's sake, as well as his and B.B.'s own.

The businessman slipped his hand into his wife's and gripped it tightly. He walked them towards the side of the bed to meet the butler as he spoke.

"Yeah...that's our girl..."

Saying those words hurt.

The daughter they remembered was nothing like the emaciated wisp of a grown woman that currently lay in the hospital bed. Now Lane's insistence for visitors to show an ID upon arrival didn't seem pointless – someone had hurt his girl. Hurt her real bad. The last thing any of them wanted was for that bastard to creep into her room and take her away again when nobody was looking.

She needed protection and would get just that. He knew he would spend his entire life standing guard outside her door, if that was what it took to keep her safe.

Still, there were one too many unanswered questions piling up in his heart and mind. He needed answers. Urgently. So he turned to the one man who might have an inkling of what had been done to their sleeping child.

"Hello Niles," said Stewart, briefly letting go of B.B. to share a quick hug with the butler.

"Shall we go outside?" Niles asked, clearly knowing what Stewart was after.

It was only natural; wanting to know. But if they were going to discuss C.C.'s ordeal, he'd much rather do it out of Miss Babcock's earshot.

Stewart glanced quickly at B.B. and then at their daughter, considered briefly, and then nodded. If their girl woke up and heard what they were talking about, she could be devastated by it.

Traumatised. That was more the word. It was unlikely that she would wake - she looked like she'd been 'helped' to get like that in the first place - but he didn't want to take the chance.

Everything was already troubling enough, without anybody having to calm her back into resting...

But it could also be best that he went alone with Niles. B.B. would of course have to know what they'd talked about, but she also needed to spend time by their daughter's side. She needed to see and to know that C.C. was safe, and that she was going to be okay.

And sometimes, being okay took a quiet room without any talking in it.

So, as he turned to follow the butler out, he took B.B.'s hand and entwined their fingers briefly.

"Hey, why don't you sit with C.C. while I find out what happened? Spend some time with her, and we can talk in a moment."

Part of B.B. considered protesting some then. She was, after all, an adult who could be part of an adult conversation, no matter what the details included. She needed to know if it was all as bad as she feared it was.

But another part of her didn't want to hear a thing. Not even later on, with softer words from Stewart. It wanted to take their daughter home, help her get better, and then never speak of it ever again.

But neither side was going to win, completely. Not in the exact way that it wanted to. And she did want to sit with C.C., just watching her sleep and seeing her breathe and knowing that she was...well, definitely not the worst that she'd feared.

So, she gave Stewart the nod, seated herself where Niles had been, and he kept going.

His heart kept going, too. This was it – this was the moment where he'd find out all the awful things that had already been done and that he hadn't been able to stop, or protect his daughter from.

This was where he'd find out how much he'd failed as a parent. Because in his mind, that was what failing to protect her ultimately meant, no matter how old his children were.

He closed the door behind them as they got to the corridor, his fists clenching and unclenching in some sort of nervous tick reaction he never knew he had.

Swallowing, he finally spoke.

"Okay. Tell me. What's been figured out so far?"

Niles pursed his lips ever so slightly. He had a feeling the older Babcock needed to be sitting down if he was to hear the news. If they had floored him, a mere intruding butler, Niles feared they'd be too much for Stewart to take. He remember there were seats just outside the ICU – maybe he should walk him there and have him take a seat before dropping the bomb?

It certainly appeared to be the best course of action.

"Sir, wouldn't you rather sit down?" Niles said quietly, so as not to disturb C.C.'S slumber or that of the patients in adjacent rooms. "I think it would be best if you did so before we discuss–"

"Tell me now," Stewart interrupted, his voice sounding almost like a growl. "I've done more than enough waiting! I want to know what happened to my child and I want to know now!"

Had they not been in a hospital hallway, Stewart was sure he would have punched the wall. But what good would it make in their current situation? It would only result in him being kicked out. The last thing he needed was to be away from his child…

But he needn't have worried about it – Niles could certainly understand his need to know. He'd been the same way, when Lane had first told him about what had transpired during the long months Miss Babcock had spent locked up. He knew Stewart was hurting. He knew he needed, desperately, to put some ghosts to rest. Or, perhaps, he needed to face them, because reality had proven to be just as horrific as any night terror or bad thought he'd ever had while C.C. was away.

"Alright, alright, I will tell you," Niles said, trying to appease Stewart. "Just…promise me you will let me know if you are feeling unwell or need a minute."

Stewart's reply was a short nod which Niles knew also was his cue to begin.

So, trying to be as gentle as he possibly could, Niles retold the horrors Miss Babcock had experienced. From being chained, starved and beaten on a regular basis, to the frequent sexual abuse. He told her how she'd bravely escaped by jumping off a window and how she'd made it back despite the storm raging on outside.

As he listened to every nightmarish, gruesome detail, Stewart could feel the storm building up inside him, too.

That...that bastard had hurt his daughter! Made her...do things that no one should ever have to do, least of all just to survive being starved or beaten to death!

Why had he not found her before all of this?! What kind of a failure of a father was he, that couldn't bring his daughter home and stop a monster from doing as he pleased?!

It was the second time that night that Stewart looked - and felt - like he could punch the walls. Only this time, he looked as though he'd start and not stop. Not until his knuckles were bloody and broken and pushed far back into the reaches of his hands, and the orderlies had to drag him away to stop him from doing more damage.

It wasn't the perfect substitute for the face of the man who had violated his daughter, but it was a start.

Because, as much as Stewart wanted to break down and weep openly with guilt and grief and rage for not preventing it in the first place, he also wanted to kill now that it was over. He didn't care who knew it, or saw it happen. Lane could bring the guy in that night and he'd happily murder the son of a bitch right in front of her!

Anything. Anything to get the revenge that his daughter deserved. And sometimes, jail just wasn't enough for what these animals did.

No. That was unfair. Animals were better than whatever the hell these things could be classed as! And animals were put down when they attacked people, which now seemed like an unfair standard, when abusers and rapists were allowed to keep their lives.

He needed to know the name. He desperately needed to hear the name of the son of a bitch who had decided he'd hurt Stewart's child. He needed to know the name of his prey – because he was going to hunt that bastard down, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

"Who did it?" Stewart asked quietly, rage permeating from his every word.

"Thomas Jones," Niles replied, his own expression darkening; he too wanted to end the bastard with his own bare hands. "Just as we thought, the son of a bitch did this to your daughter."

"Where is he now?! Where is he so I can go and put a bullet through his fucking head!"

Almost as if to stress his point, Stewart delivered a swift punch to the wall, making a dent on it in the shape of his now bruised knuckles. He cared little about how much he'd have to pay to have it fixed (he had plenty of money to spare) – he needed to relieve the pain inside, and it was either the wall or the first human being that crossed his path.

Niles could understand the feeling, but he´d had hours to cool down. Hours to start to stomach the horrors that had been done to the woman he loved. Hours Stewart hadn't had and would probably need, if he was to be there for C.C.. Gently, Niles reached out and placed a hand on Stewart's outstretched arm moments before it could flex again in preparation for another blow.

"Sir, you need to stop," he said, holding on tight to Stewart's arm. The man was struggling to wrench free from the butler's grasp, clearly in no mood to heed his advice.

"The hell I need to stop!" Stewart screamed, still struggling with the butler, "How can I fucking stop when I let my child be hurt?! Hm?! I fucking dare you to say that to me again!"

"Sir, please think this through!" Niles kept his tone firm but his words were, in fact, pleading, as he held Stewart back from assaulting the wall (or something else) again.

He could already see hospital orderlies in the distance, probably alerted by the yelling, and some of the people in rooms further up – offices or nurses' break rooms, perhaps? – were starting to poke their heads out to see what the commotion was...

This wasn't the time to draw attention to themselves. And as much as Niles would happily join in on the vigilante justice that would no doubt end when they strung up Thomas' lifeless (and genitalia-less) corpse from a tree in the back woods somewhere upstate, they couldn't submit to the rage that they felt right then and there.

He'd had time to think it over. Stewart just needed that time as well, and to stop punching things before he was taken away to a very different ward in the hospital.

"I don't want to think it through, Niles! If I stop and think, I won't do it, and then the bastard wins!" the businessman took another swing at the wall, but with Niles' body weight attached, he missed. "Every day that fucking rapist spends alive is another day he's allowed to get away with it!"

Niles had to physically drag him from the wall to stop him from kicking it that time. When he looked up again, uncomfortable and slightly frustrated, the people who'd been snooping all closed the doors and presumably went back to whatever it was they'd been doing before.

The orderlies were a lot closer, too, probably hovering on the verge of calling security. He had to calm Stewart down, before they'd made up their minds and things got just that little bit more complicated.

The butler somehow managed to drag a livid 6'3" man into the nearest empty room and roughly push him into a small armchair next to the hospital bed. He immediately pressed Stewart's shoulders against the back of the seat, successfully immobilising him. Niles might not be a tall man, but he was far stronger than he appeared to be.

He had years of hard physical labour to thank for that.

"Let me go!" demanded Stewart, struggling against Niles, "Let me go right now, you fucking son of a filthy bitch!"

But Niles wouldn't budge. Despite Stewart's attempts at kicking and punching him, he held him in place. He'd never imagined he'd ever have to do this to Stewart, but until the man had regained his bearing he simply couldn't leave him to his own devices. God knows what he'd do…

"I am warning you, Niles!" Stewart continued to scream, "Don't force me to hurt you!"

"I think it's the other way round, sir," Niles replied in a calm and collected voice – he knew he had to keep a tight grip on his emotions since Stewart was clearly unable to. "If you don't calm down this instant, you'll either end up being kicked out or you'll force me to hold you here until you decide to act like a bloody human being!"

"Fuck off, Brightmore!" the older man howled, "You have no right–"

"Neither do you!" Niles screamed back – he could hear security rushing down the corridor, so he'd rather deescalate the situation before they both got kicked out of the hospital. "Can't you get it in your head that this is not a time for vengeance?! Don't you think I don't want to end that bloody bastard, too?! Because I do! I want him tom have a slow and painful death – to drag out his suffering until he begs me for release! But this is not the moment! Not when your child is a few doors down and in desperate need of her family! She is the priority, not your thirst for revenge!"

The last of his words resounded in the room, before it fell back into silence.

He could tell that Stewart was considering his words, but he had no idea what would happen once he had. There were at least two different paths Stewart could take there, and Niles had to be wary of one of them, in case he ended up having to fight back and they both ended up being escorted out by security.

He had urged him to think, and think well. Stewart wasn't an unreasonable man, he was just a man faced with an unreasonable, unjust and unfair situation. Nobody could blame him for being angry. But they could blame him for not keeping it in check when he needed to.

And, deep down, Stewart knew and understood this. He knew he could compromise a whole case by going after the guy before a trial (because things did have to be done the legal way), and that C.C. would probably rather he was there with her than out somewhere, tracking down a guy she never wanted to even think about again.

His girl...she really was back. And Niles was right – she needed him. Not in jail, either, although it would be the most personally satisfying reason for getting a life sentence for murder.

She needed her family around her, whole and complete, and she needed the love that he could give to help her see that life hadn't completely ended the moment she was taken.

The more he thought about how he'd just behaved, a mere wall away from her room, the more Stewart began to feel ashamed. He'd allowed himself to turn into an animal, when what C.C. needed was a father.

He could put his bloodlust to one side to take care of her. It was always there if the slim opportunity ever arose.

But for now, he could only hang his head and sigh.

"You're right...you're right about everything. I'm...sorry."

Niles didn't have the opportunity to reply before security had arrived in the room. The three uniformed men, each and every one of them as wide as they were tall, surrounded them, tasers ready and waiting in their big, rough hands.

"It's alright, gentlemen," Niles quickly spoke, trying to sound as calm as he possibly could. "The situation is under control…"

"Care to explain what the hell's going on in here?!" snapped one of the officers – the biggest, most menacing of the lot. "Brawling in the middle of the ICU? Kicking and punching walls?!"

"And we are terribly sorry, sir." Niles said, raising his voice. "Mr Babcock here has just reunited with his daughter and…lost his bearings for a moment. It won't happen again."

The mention of the Babcock surname was all that the officers seemed to need to know, because their confrontational attitude soon changed into a sympathetic one. They no doubt knew who Stewart's child was and what had been done to her – probably all the staff knew, at this point. Niles wasn't sure if that was something good, but it had undoubtedly gotten them off the hook with security.

The big one that had only moments ago been prepared to put them both on the ground suddenly seemed to deflate a little. One might even say that he was embarrassed, to have had the reaction he did.

He was only doing his job and neither Niles nor Stewart could fault him for that, but still. He looked like he was sorry that he had even brought it up.

"Just...just so long as it doesn't, sir," the man nodded stiffly, pursing his lips to stop himself from frowning too much. "Have a...restful rest of your night."

He then turned away, his colleagues muttering their own apologies and following him out as they slunk off back to their duties.

It didn't take a genius to work out that the biggest security guard had just avoided telling them to have a good night. Anybody with eyes or a mind to understand knew that they hadn't started off the night by _enjoying_ it, and they sure as hell weren't going to finish it that way, either.

The most joy they could get was in knowing that C.C. was back, alive, and they would find a way through everything.

Maybe one day, they'd be having a good night, and they'd be able to look back and see how far they'd come. But that was for a long time in the future.

For now, just making it through the night was going to be enough.

"Come, sir," Niles said after a few silent moments had gone by. "Let's go back to your daughter's room…"

And so they did. They returned in silence, heads hanging low and hearts heavy in their chests.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 23**

 _Pain_.

The word materialised itself in her mind in angry, red, jagged letters, cutting through an inexplicably heavy mist that had settled around her. She could feel every fibre of her being throbbing and aching, making it impossible for her to even try to move. Hell, breathing alone was a fucking herculean task as it was!

Still, despite the grogginess and the unrelenting pain, she could still try to think – she could still try to make sense of the jumbled mess that were her thoughts. Connecting two ideas together seemed to be the first step to understand where she was and what had happened.

That was, of course, easier said than done. It took her several attempts, but eventually, her ideas started to take shape and connect with each other. She started with small facts she knew were true – name and age. She was C.C. Babcock and she was thirty-five years old. Then, more ideas started to roll in.

She lived in New York.

She was a Broadway Producer.

She'd…she'd been kidnapped.

She'd escaped.

Suddenly, it was as if something or someone had finally switched on C.C.'s brain. Panic took over, cutting through the impenetrable mist that had once pervaded her thoughts. Now she knew what had happened – she'd tried to escape and failed. Thomas had her and had beaten her black and blue as he always did.

Screaming wouldn't help, she knew that, but a bloodcurdling wail of terror made its way out anyway as she flung her eyes open.

The light was soft, but still brighter than it ever was in her cell, and it stung the moment it hit her vision from where her eyes had been closed only moments ago, but she didn't care. If the only things she had at that moment were the powers of sight and her lungs, then she was going to use both. They were still strong, and she'd push past any pain she had in order to keep going for as long as possible. If she had been dragged back into Hell – and she _was_ tormented by the despair of knowing that she had – after being so close to freedom she could taste it, then she was going to announce her suffering to the whole world. She'd go through anything - no matter what horrible thing happened next, or whatever she had to do, she would find a way to make herself heard!

Thomas would have to finish the job if he wanted her to shut up this time!

She screamed loud enough for it to echo and ring back through her own ears, never once stopping long enough to think – even if part of it did still register – that the room sounded like it had more of an echo than her cell did. And the light was shaped different...there was more than one light in that place...

Her mind must have tried to dismiss these things as some sort of trick Thomas was playing. Or maybe she simply wasn't in her cell - she could be somewhere even more horrific that her captor had been devising, in case something like her escape happened?!

Her mind didn't know and it didn't care, and for an infinite moment, she was both defiant and terrified of everything that place had to offer. Nothing there could be good, or suggest hope, or possibly be a way out-

"Miss Babcock! It's alright...!"

The loud and yet somehow calm voice cut through her cry. It always had done before, back when she'd heard it during the darkest and worst parts of her confinement. And it was back again, louder and clearer than ever - just when she'd been sent back...

But...there was a warm feeling with it. Like a hand, on her wrist...and...and when she turned her eyes up to her side...

The screaming stopped altogether.

 _Niles_. Actual, real world, warm and physically present Niles, holding her wrist and looking as though he were about to leap out of...a seat? He'd been sat with her...!

Her fading screams almost cracked and turned into tears immediately. It was impossible to put into words how much she had missed him, and now, the minute she was...wherever she was...he was there...!

Maybe...had she frozen to death in the snow? Was this an afterlife, and getting to spend it with Niles her reward? If you'd asked her a year ago what kind of afterlife that would be to her, she'd have probably replied that she'd start trying to act better right away, if that was how she'd spend eternity.

But now...now, she wasn't sure she'd want anything else.

Niles, meanwhile, could only let panic spread through him and cracks form in his heart as he watched Miss Babcock's terror unfold and then saw her immediately burst into tears at the mere sight of him.

The guilt felt like poison working its way through his blood – he had done this to her. No matter how much he tried to make up for it by looking for her, having sleepless nights from his own terror and worry, or anything he did now, it was still his fault. You didn't get a medal for saving someone from drowning if you pushed them out of the boat in the first place.

But, despite the bitter feeling, he still wanted to help. He knew what he had done, and all he wanted to be was better. His heart ached for her to feel safe, and there were nowhere safer for her to be in the entire world! Not while there were police everywhere in the building and he was sat right by her bedside...

"It's alright," he repeated, gently but with emphasis, making sure she heard over her tears. He got out of his seat, moving slowly up her bed so that she could see him better. "You're in the hospital...you've been asleep for a little over a day. You got out of...wherever you were, and you walked through the worst snowstorm anybody here has ever seen to do it...!"

C.C.'s crying dropped to sniffles and gulped breaths as she listened to him.

Listened, and let her brain register what he was saying.

Hospital. Snowstorm. Asleep. Got out. Hospital...

All of it played over and over in her head like a loop, until it slowly sank into her mind, like salt or sugar dissolving in water.

She'd gotten out. She'd...she'd made it...!

She'd escaped from that hellhole, battled her way through that storm, and she was alive! She hadn't dreamed finding the reception, she wasn't in any kind of afterlife, and that meant...

That meant that really was the real Niles, leaning out of his seat, where he must've been sat for hours, telling her that it was all going to be okay.

That was enough to bring her tears back in force, and with a cry of overwhelmed joy, she reached up and pulled him into her arms, burying her face in his shoulder.

Niles felt something akin to the emotional equivalent of being struck by lightning when she did. It was a shock, but so much more than that - it left him dazed, and had he not been firmly in her arms, he was sure that he would have staggered and maybe even collapsed.

She...she was embracing him, just like he had...dreamt about...

But why?! Didn't she know who he was? What he had done to her? Didn't she realise she was holding onto the person who had caused her suffering in the first place?!

She should've been saving her hugs for the people who deserved it.

And, after taking in a deep, calming breath, the butler spoke up to tell her this.

"Miss Babcock, I–"

"I missed you," a voice croaked from his shoulder, interrupting, and arms tightened around him. "So much..."

Well, that was...unexpected. And it made Niles' insides suddenly seem as though they were made out of goo. Soft, warm, and half melted - guilty, still, but all those things, nonetheless.

She'd missed him. He never thought he'd ever hear her say that, before or after this had happened.

And, on his worst days, he thought he'd never hear anything from her at all, ever again.

Maybe...maybe he could save his guilty speech for later. When she was feeling better, and was in a better position to receive it. For now, he could just enjoy the fact that she wasn't repulsed by the sight of him, and that she clearly wanted to have contact.

He couldn't put his arms around her fully, but he leaned his head against hers and let his hands move to hold her upper arms very lightly.

"I missed you too, Miss Babcock," he murmured back.

She felt so very delicate in his arms…

So fragile. Like crystal. Or a raindrop dangling from the edge of a leaf after a rainstorm has just come to an end. He didn't want to break her – he'd done more than enough damage as it was, but if her wish was for him to hold her, then he wouldn't even dream of pulling away.

She couldn't hold on for long, though. Her broken wrist and general state of unwellness had depleted her of most of her strength, so she was back to lying down on her bed sooner than she would have liked.

"Let me tuck you back in, Miss Babcock," said Niles, "You need to rest…"

C.C. nodded. She was exhausted and her body ached inside and out; she'd never say no to rest, especially when she'd been sleep-deprived for the last few months of her life. She was also feeling uncomfortably stiff – she didn't know if it was yet another consequence of having gone out during a snowstorm, but she felt as if there was ice in her bones. The only warmth – uncomfortable warmth, at that – was radiating from her head. Was she running a fever?

"Niles…" she croaked as the butler fitted the sheets around her tired body. "My…my head hurts…"

Niles blinked. What did she mean, her head hurt? Had she hit it, or...or did she mean that she was feeling unwell?

It would be understandable if she was – after being out in that snowstorm for so long, she had probably caught a chill! But he needed to check, and see if she was running a temperature.

He tenderly reached out to feel her forehead with the back of his hand, trying not to frown too deeply or even start to cry when their skin made contact and his practically burned at the touch of hers.

She was feverish, and it was bad.

But (much to his shame, even if it made no sense to anything but his desire to help) he had nothing to bring her temperature back down - she needed someone who could do that for her.

He might have his fingers linger slightly on her skin as he took them away, but it wasn't very long.

"You are burning up a bit," he told her softly. "But it's alright – I'll call someone to come and get your temperature down, okay?"

In between ragged, uncomfortable breaths, she nodded again. She wanted the feeling to go away as soon as possible, and if that meant getting a nurse or doctor, then she wanted them there right away.

Niles pressed the call button and they waited.

Moments later, a young nurse shuffled into the room and after Niles had explained to her what was happening, she promised to be back soon with something to bring Miss Babcock's fever down. She was, of course, as good as her word, and soon enough C.C. was being given much needed medicine. Doctors dropped by shortly afterward. They bombarded Miss Babcock with question after question – how she was feeling, if she was in pain, if she was hungry, if she remembered why she was there…

The verbal onslaught was overwhelming her, and Niles could easily tell. Her answers were shaky and mumbled, she faltered sometimes…

It was making him Niles burn – couldn't they see she'd gone through enough already? Couldn't their questions wait? Couldn't they give her some much needed space?

Clearly not.

He was aching to scream at them to leave her alone, but he was well aware it would do more harm than good. Still, in his own quiet way he expressed his support – holding her hand in his, stroking his thumb against the back of her hand.

It seemed to take forever until they had asked enough questions. Miss Babcock was clearly exhausted by the time they were done and had left, telling her to get the rest they were ironically depriving her of only moments ago.

He would have glared at them as they left, if it hadn't been for the fact that his attention was immediately drawn back to the producer.

She needed more sleep. It was obvious when he looked into her eyes.

It was only right to ask her if that was what she wanted to do, too.

"Are you alright, Miss Babcock?" he continued stroking her hand, even after the doctors had gone. "Do you want to rest?"

She didn't have enough strength to speak right at that moment. Instead, she used what she had to shake her head.

Niles nodded in return. If she didn't want to sleep more, he wasn't going to force her. In fact, her being awake presented an opportunity.

"Alright," he said quietly, preparing to get to his feet again. "If you want to stay awake, I can go fetch your parents. They'll be waiting somewhere in the building; they might've gone to get something to eat."

But as he got to his feet, he felt a hand grab his, holding him firmly in place.

"No!"

The force of Miss Babcock's cry made him jump, and when he looked at her, she was sat as upright as she could be, her eyes pleading.

"Stay," she near-whispered. "Please...? Stay with me..."

She...she really meant it, didn't she? It was obvious as the tiredness in her eyes had been only moments before. Niles couldn't fathom why she would want him there, when he had done nothing to deserve being around her and everything to warrant being sent far away, never to return.

She should want her parents. Her brother. The people who not only loved her, but had done everything they could to show it.

The people who had earned her love in return.

But he wasn't going to question her choice. She clearly had a lot to say that she couldn't currently, and she had asked for him, whether it was the right decision or not.

He wouldn't go anywhere, if that was what she had asked.

"Alright," he said, retaking his seat and not letting go of her hand. "I'll stay."

"Thank you," she said after a short, silent moment, eyes unable to look at his – it was almost as if she were embarrassed…

"No," he replied, squeezing her hand a little. "Thank you."

Nothing else was said afterwards. They just sat there in silence, hands held, and minds bursting with questions that couldn't yet be asked.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 24**

The coffee pot was the first thing to go on that morning, just like it always was. Martha knew that her husband would be wanting his usual cup as soon as he was ready to get out of bed.

She didn't mind that he often wanted to sleep in. She liked having the kitchen to herself, and getting to quietly start her day. It was nice, padding around the kitchen tiles in her warm slippers, a fluffy robe thrown on over the top of her pyjamas, getting to do everything at a slow pace. It especially went with the weather they were having outside - she could've sworn that the snow nearly reached the base of the window!

A hot breakfast on the table nearly completed the picture. All that was left to do was turn on the television, and see what had been happening in the world while they had been comfortably asleep.

Settling herself into a chair, she pressed the power button and let the screen flicker to life, taking a bite of her toast as she flipped through the channels until it landed on the news.

Martha considered it lucky that she'd managed to swallow by the time she made it there, because she gasped so hard she would've inhaled it.

There, on the screen, was the headline "Missing Producer Found Alive", and the news anchor was talking animatedly about how the case had unfolded.

Martha thought she could've let out a surprised bark of laughter from her own delight. At last, the case that had had everyone talking had been solved! They'd found the poor woman who'd been taken, miraculously alive, and now she was safe!

Even though she didn't know her personally, Martha felt a weight very much like relief lift out of her heart. She hadn't been able to shift it since she had last visited Thomas, and she'd followed the case ever since. It felt like the right thing to do – at least, it felt better than ignoring it all entirely. She'd wanted to make sure that her son really did have nothing to do with the case, just as he'd told her.

The police would have a better idea, so she'd just quietly followed the news and all the updates as they came in.

But it had broken her heart any time she'd thought about it. That poor woman - that C.C. Babcock – she'd had everything in the world, from money to a flourishing career, to power and influence all over the city, and all of a sudden it had been taken away?!

It hadn't been fair! She was more than thrilled that the poor dear had been found – it would take time, but she could recover and move on with her life. She could start again, and eventually be happy.

And the person who really had tried to do it deserved punishing to the full extent of the law!

Eight months that poor woman had been missing, and Lord only knew what she'd had to endure in the meantime! Whoever had inflicted...whatever it was, on her, needed finding and locking away where they couldn't hurt anybody anymore! They could only be the lowest form of evil, and deserved to be treated as such!

Martha could only wonder what other information they'd found out (had the caught the monster who'd committed the crime?), when the anchor handed over to live footage from outside a precinct of the New York Police Department.

It was a sight she had come to know well, and she leaned in and listened intently as she realised they were going to an announcement by the woman who had been leading the investigation - Detective Christine Lane.

"We have confirmed today that Chastity-Claire Babcock has, indeed, been found," there was a hint of relief in her voice, underneath the serious tone. "She is alive and recovering in hospital under close supervision. However, we regret to inform that her captor is still wanted and at large."

Martha felt herself deflate a little. She had been hoping that they would have wrapped the case up neatly, and that she could stop worrying about what kind of people were out there on the street...!

Her breath caught in her throat when Lane continued.

"However, in the interest of public safety, we are releasing some details on our perpetrator."

Martha took her breath back in and held it.

"His name is Thomas Jones. He is around six feet..."

Suddenly, despite the bright light coming from the morning outside, Martha felt as though her world had been plunged into blackness, and her heart and stomach had quickly been sucked into an abyss, never to return. Her toast dropped from her hand, her face falling as it happened, and suddenly she wondered if she might throw up what little she'd managed to eat.

Lane's voice went on, getting into her ears and echoing in her head, no matter how much she tried to block it out.

"...He is also believed to have violently abused Miss Babcock frequently, and is considered to be extremely dangerous to members of the public..."

No. No, it couldn't be. This couldn't be confirming everything she'd hoped wasn't true – it had to be a coincidence, surely! It was too big an area to leap to that conclusion so early! There were lots of people named Thomas Jones in this part of the world, about the same height as her son, with the same hair and eye colour! It had to be a mistake!

He'd said he'd had nothing to do with it! Had he really lied to them?! Of course he had, one part of her head smacked the other and scolded it for ever believing such a pitiful excuse as the one he'd given! She'd had a hunch, when he'd said he'd had nothing to do with it, and yet she'd wilfully chosen to ignore it, anyway! How could she have done such a thing, in a case of such great importance?!

The other tried to defend itself – of course she'd given him the benefit of the doubt! She was his mother, and even though her boy had had his troubles in the past, he'd said that was behind him! That he was moving on with his life, and trying to do better!

She'd...she'd done everything she could, to help him be better! She couldn't have failed, could she?!

It had to be a mistake. It had to be someone else! Not her boy. Not her little boy, whom she had wanted to save from all the things he had seen in his short life! Her little boy, who had grown up and promised her that he'd had nothing to do with any missing woman!

It was all she could think! It couldn't be her boy! It had to be some mistake; somebody else's son who had done this terrible thing!

Not her boy...whose face had just appeared in a box on the screen, the word "Wanted" stamped underneath!

She scrambled from her seat, her heart breaking in her chest and not even hearing, let alone caring, that she had swept all the breakfast, crockery and cutlery to an untimely demise on the floor, and hurried towards the television.

She grabbed it by its sides, gripping it and staring and pleading with all the powers – any at all – that were listening that somehow, this was a mistake. That the picture would change and form the face of some other, unknown individual, and then the world would go back to normal. She'd get her son back, just the way she wanted him to be, and they could all move on innocently.

But it didn't change. The detective drummed on at the viewers about who to call if they saw "this man" on the street, or if he came to the door, and how it was best to treat him with extreme caution.

It was her son they were talking about, whether she liked it or not.

And Martha, in her heartbroken despair and with a weight that had been lifted suddenly doubling and slamming down on her tenfold, could only let out a mournful, wailing scream.

She barely felt her husband's arms when they eventually wrapped themselves around her shaking body and brought it close to his. She barely felt the tears that were pouring down her husband's now-ashen face. She barely heard his soft, loving words that said he was there for her. That he loved her.

He didn't even try to say it would be alright, though. It would never be alright, and both Martha and Edward knew so with painful certainty.

Still, the thoughts going on in each parent's head couldn't have been more different if they'd tried. While there was pain in both of their hearts, Edward (unlike Martha) was seething with blinding anger. He could physically feel his blood boiling as it coursed through his old veins.

That little bastard had lied to them. His own parents, who had taken him from the depths of Hell and had done everything they could to turn his life around! They'd given him a warm home, good food...all the love and attention two parents could give to their child...

Edward felt the cracks deepening into fissures in his heart. Thomas had been their golden child, and in his mind an image of the quiet, unassuming little boy who'd tried to imitate him constantly – speech, mannerisms, even the way he walked and ate – appeared.

The future had seemed so promising back then...

What had they done wrong? How could they have failed him so badly that they'd failed another person right along with him?! Though it wasn't even fair to group the poor woman with what their monster of a child had done - she'd had nothing to do with it!

No, Thomas stood alone for this. It didn't matter who he'd been before, if this was the way he'd turned out.

And Edward decided in that moment that he wanted nothing more to do with him. The boy he'd adored so much had gone, if he'd ever really existed in the first place, and he couldn't stand to even think of being in the same place as him again.

Not without doing something drastic, anyway. For all the pain he'd caused that poor woman, and for breaking his parents' hearts like he thought it was nothing.

It should've been obvious to them that their boy had never truly loved anybody but himself, but they had been blinded by their own attempts at loving him and making him feel loved.

Well, both their eyes should've been wide open now.

Not that he was going to say anything like that to Martha. Right now, more than anything, she needed his comfort. She needed him to be calm, strong and rational – not to break down over what they had done, versus what they should've done, and what their bastard of a son had done as a result.

He had to keep it in. Whatever the case was, he was still the boy they'd raised and it would only hurt all the more to have to talk about the angry feelings now. They wouldn't do anybody any good.

And it felt like the world needed a little more good in it, right at that moment.

So, settling himself down on the nearest chair, he pulled Martha into his lap and held her in his arms, trying as best he could to hush her sobbing even as the pain in his chest threatened to make him collapse from the grief.

"It's alright, honey...I've got you...I've got you," he murmured, turning his lips and pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "I'm here..."

He wanted to add that they'd get through it, but how could he? Before, "we" had always meant them and all of their children. But after this, it couldn't mean all of them, ever again. There was no way he would ever include Thomas in their family anymore, even if he was still their son.

And how could he even think they'd be alright, when they had to wake up to the knowledge of what he was, every day for the rest of their lives?

* * *

Niles could feel his heart hammering in his chest as Lane's police car pulled up in front of Thomas Jones' home; had the property not been roped off with crime scene tape, Niles was sure they'd have gone all the way up the driveway until they'd reached the door, but as it was they'd have to make do.

 _He'd_ have to make do, at any rate. He was, after all, but a guest that had been given the rare opportunity to see the place where Miss Babcock had been held for all those months. Lane had told him she'd be breaking a slew of rules and that they'd have to be quick, but he was still thankful that he'd finally be able to put part of his fears to rest. He needed (and he really didn't know why) to see for himself – he needed to see or risk being driven insane by the nightmarish images his brain kept coming up with.

He hadn't told Miss Babcock he'd be coming – what good would it make? She was delicate enough for him to even mention the subject! No, he'd told a little white like instead. He'd said he had a doctor's appointment with his cardiologist, and had left her with her parents, who seldom left her side these days.

Their reunion had been heartbreaking – Niles had been present when it had happened; C.C. didn't like him being away, so she'd asked him to stay around during the reunion with her family.

He hadn't been able or willing to do anything else. After so long apart and with so many instances of worry and terror still swirling around in his stomach and stinging at his brain like wasps, he'd not wanted to be out of her sight, or to let her out of his, either. It had served more than helped her to remain calm(er), throughout the whole meeting.

He couldn't have possibly imagined the thoughts and feelings that would've been circulating all the minds of the Babcocks present at that meeting. How could he possibly capture and know the relief or joy that parents would feel, in knowing their daughter was alive, or the hurt and guilt and anger in knowing that...that they hadn't been able to protect her from a lunatic?

Granted, he had felt all of those things, but they were her _parents_ – they would have felt it more deeply than him. How could he begin to compare his own feelings, as strong as they felt to him, with people who actually mattered in the conversation?

He didn't know. He wasn't even going to try. He was just going to help in any way that he could, all while trying to put his mind at rest for the good of everyone involved.

And that started with opening the car door, as Lane switched off the engine.

He waited for her to get out of the vehicle before heading towards the property – anxious as he was, he still knew his place. They walked in silence, each of them lost in their own little world as they crossed the snow-covered front-yard.

"She jumped from there," Lane suddenly said, pointing towards the window directly above the roofed entrance porch. "When she escaped? She opened the damn window and hopped onto the roof and then the garden – the snow softened her fall."

Niles winced even imagining. C.C. had not only built up the courage to find a means of escape, she'd also gone through with an extremely dangerous one! What if the snow hadn't been as deep as she'd thought and it hadn't cushioned her? What if she'd broken both her ankles on impact? What if she'd...she'd broken her neck?!

His next automatic reaction was to realise that none of that had even mattered. Not only had none of it happened, it hadn't mattered because C.C. had been willing to take the risk, no matter what.

She hadn't cared what it had taken, in order to be free. And that sent a swell of mixed emotions directly into the butler's chest. Rage, resentment and guilt, for not having done something to prevent this from happening or for not finding her before she'd had to do it. Sorrow, for the pain she would have gone through...

Admiration, for the fact that she had been so determined to survive, it simply didn't matter what needed to be done. She had done it anyway, because she was strong and she was a survivor – and that sounded very much like the C.C. Babcock that he knew.

He couldn't imagine himself doing it, even if his own life were on the line...

Or maybe he would – he didn't really know. She'd lived through unspeakable horror, and desperation could make a person do things that they otherwise wouldn't.

"Ready?" Lane asked when they reached the front door. "We can still go back, if you want…"

Niles shook his head. Part of him would much rather not see, but another, much wiser part of him knew he couldn't afford it. This house and the

Niles shook his head. Part of him would much rather not see, but another, much wiser part of him knew he couldn't afford it. This house and the cruelties within haunted his dreams – he needed it to stop, especially if he was going to be there for Miss Babcock.

"No…I'm…" Niles trailed off, going quiet for a moment before snapping out of whatever terrible thought he'd been in. "Let's go in."

"Very well then; put these on," Lane said, and handed him a pair of latex gloves. "It's standard procedure – we don't want your fingerprints suddenly popping up at the crime scene, do we?"

Once he'd snapped them on tight and wriggled his fingers quickly to make sure they were comfortable, he looked at Lane. It was a silent message, telling her that he was ready.

Ready for whatever happened when she opened that door. For the nightmares to come true – for something worse than the nightmares to be the real truth.

He didn't know what could possibly be worse than the things he'd seen and heard in his head whenever he'd been told what had happened, but he had to acknowledge the fact that people were often sick in the head and life was very unfair.

He figured that if he kept that in mind, he might just survive being in that place.

Lane nodded back at him, taking out a key, "Alright, then..."

She unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping into a...an immaculate hallway?

It was hardly the grimy, filth-and-dirt dungeon of a room that Niles had been imagining. Whenever a house where abuse had happened was portrayed on television, it was nearly always dark, dank and mouldy at the tobacco-stained walls. This place looked like a show home in comparison!

The only way he could tell that police had been there at all was because of the taped off areas he could see in the back, and he assumed that the plastic sheet acting as a kind of second carpet in the hallway was something to do with them as well.

Lane confirmed it when she indicated down at the sheeting.

"You can only walk on this plastic cover – the forensics department still wants this place just as we found it, so no making footprints," she said, before an uncomfortable look crossed her face. "We need it in good condition as evidence, too. C.C. was made to keep it like this, under threat of violence."

Niles thought, in that moment, that if he ever met Thomas Jones, he would kill him. Not just punch him to the ground, or beat him until he was unconscious, but beat him until the last breath left his body in agony and terror.

Granted, the butler had had the feeling and the urge before, but taking one look at that bright, spotless carpet – not so much as a speck of dust or dirt in sight and as crisp as a new linen sheet – and knowing that Miss Babcock had been threatened into keeping it like that, only to suffer at that bastard's hands anyway, made him want to scream until the entire hellhole of a house collapsed around his ears.

And he wanted to bury the monster underneath the rubble.

The worst part, his mind reminded him, was that he hadn't even made it through the door yet. The worst was yet to come, and his blood was already reaching its boiling point...

"Deep breaths, Niles," Lane said, gently patting his back – she'd clearly picked up on his distress. "We can always leave if this is too mu––"

"I'm alright," he cut her off, perhaps a little forcefully. "Just…let's move on."

Lane gave him a long, scrutinizing look, but said nothing. It was better that way, too – he wasn't in the mood to talk. Not even to Lane. Together, they made their way down the entrance hallway and turned left to step into the kitchen. The place was, admittedly, impossibly clean, but he could see a number of dirty plates and cutlery stacked in the kitchen sink.

"She never got to wash those," Lane said, pointing over at the sink. "We took the two glasses though; one had her DNA, and the other Mr Jones'. Now, if you'll come this way…?"

Niles simply had to let Lane drag him out of the kitchen, otherwise he would have lingered in there, eyes burning holes in the dirty cutlery. Evidence that she'd been there. Evidence of her abuse.

It was all over the first floor of the house, in obvious places and in clear signs as well as the hidden spots and invisible markers. The only difference was how loudly each one spoke. Smashed glass (that Lane thought may have been done out of anger on the night C.C. had escaped) screamed in violent fury, while silver polished and buffed to a panicked high sheen and placed "just so" on mantles and side tables in the rooms where company would normally be expected were whispered at best, hissed desperately at worst.

Almost as though the person doing them were afraid of being caught. Of getting into trouble for reasons they didn't know yet. Of being punished for doing something wrong without understanding what mistake had been made.

It only got worse as they made their way down to the basement. Lane hadn't attempted to talk about any of what they'd seen around the rest of the place, perhaps figuring that pointing out any specific locations or details would make him fly off the handle. Niles understood if that was what was going on in her mind, which was why he simply took in a few shaking breaths and curled up his fists the moment he'd spotted the sofa covered by a sheet, a crime scene evidence marker on the floor next to it.

He'd kill the bastard. He'd do it painfully and he'd do it himself - no middle man, like a hitman, or weapon, like a gun or a knife. Both of those things might've proved efficient, but they'd take away the satisfaction of actually getting to do the work with his own two hands.

And he might've never killed anybody before – he certainly wasn't about to develop a taste for it – but he knew that he could do it, in this case.

He could do it. And if that bastard took even so much as a step in Miss Babcock's direction, he'd–

"We can take a look at the sub-basement, too, if you want to continue?"

Lane's voice snapped him back to the present moment again, suddenly making him aware of what he was actually looking at (or had at least appeared to be).

The room's fireplace. A place that was traditionally seen

A fireplace that had been cleared out, and the back pushed open to reveal a secret door...

It was as close to vomiting as Niles had come since entering the house, and that was after some close calls they'd had on the floor above.

He swallowed back what he could, feeling the burning sensation sting as it made its way down his throat. He didn't care - it didn't hurt half as much as being stood just feet away from where Miss Babcock had once been held like a prisoner.

Did he go in? He'd said he would, before even taking one step inside that house! Could he really go back on that, just because a simple, stupid door was already making him feel uncomfortable?

The answer was automatic and correct, as far as he was concerned.

Miss Babcock had endured months of torture in that room, and he'd vowed to stand by her, no matter what had or would happen. He wasn't going to abandon that promise, just because he'd been terrified at the thought of finding out what...what that place really looked like...

That settled it. He pursed his lips and spoke (slightly hoarsely) to Lane for what felt like the first time in ages.

"I want to see."

Just like with the rest of the house, Lane had then taken the lead to show him the way. She'd also pointed out places that she'd suggested he shouldn't touch as they crawled their way through the space.

He didn't ask why. He was certain that he didn't want to know.

The moment he spotted the ladder into what he just knew had to be the cell where Miss Babcock had existed for so long, he felt his stomach drop again.

This was it. This was the moment he was faced with the awful reality of what she'd had to endure. No matter how much every sense in his body told him that he should turn back, run, not look over his shoulder until it was out of that place and somewhere far away, he had to continue.

He had to endure it, too. Even if it was only for a brief moment, compared with the bravest woman he'd ever met.

Lane could probably still sense his urgency, so she let him go first.

"Remember, you still can't touch anything, no matter what feelings it brings out in you," she said. "The more we can cleanly take from it, the quicker we'll get the bastard put away."

Niles frowned, wanting to ask about their search for Thomas, but quickly realising that he was trying to delay himself without even thinking about it.

He couldn't let anything come between him and his task. Not now. Not when he was so close to finding out if the nightmare really was worse than the reality.

He slowly descended the ladder that made its way down into the room, and was immediately hit by a stale smell of dust and unwashed clothes.

But that wasn't what bothered him - having looked after people all his life, Niles knew what unwashed clothes and dust smelled like.

No, what bothered him (more like sent him into stunned shock) was the stained mattress that immediately hit his eyes as they fell to the floor, covered in dark patches and looking like it had been left down here to rot for years.

Niles covered his hand with his mouth, eyes widening and coming closer even though he wasn't willing his feet to move.

Was...was that really where Miss Babcock had slept, for all her time spent down here?! On barely anything, covered in filth and surrounded by what could only be...patches...oh, dear God, patches of her own blood...

It could only be. There was a chest of drawers nearby, each one having been opened by forensics, revealing pile after pile of old, comfortable-looking but ultimately stained clothes.

Just beyond that was a rack, too. That held neatly pressed dresses – the kind you'd expect from an episode of "I Love Lucy", not the real, modern world – all hanging neatly in a row. They must have been for the bastard's own "special occasions", and Niles could only burn up inside as he sharply turned away, soon getting lost in the rest of the few meagre possessions she had down there...

A CD player with a few CD boxes scattered around it, as though they'd been neatly stacked but pulled apart at some point. A wicker basket full of yarn that was clearly meant to be for knitting and crochet work. A pile of books - more than a whole year's worth of novels and crossword puzzle books - on a table, one placed open upside down to hold it on its current page...

And on the wall nearest the table was a mural. Made up of scenes and quotes from what must have only been a handful of the books she'd been given, but each - from the confession of Mr Darcy to Elizabeth Bennet to the Mad Hatter's Tea Party and Robinson Crusoe washing up on his island...

That last one seemed to cry out in how much its artist yearned for freedom. To be spirited away somewhere quiet, apparently deserted, where she could learn to survive by herself again.

It made Niles want to weep as he looked. He ached to know if she'd actually written anything around that subject in the books as well, but the urge had to remain beneath the surface. Lane had just descended the steps, and he didn't want to do a single, absentminded thing which could get the case thrown out.

Besides, he'd quickly looked over to the last thing he could see on the one little table she'd been allowed down there, and had just spotted that it was a map.

A map of the area – of New Jersey, so detailed, the house had even been lightly circled in pencil, while a faint dotted line of it pricked at the paper, heading one particular way down the street...

And turning a corner, following the road. Keeping going, taking more corners and shortcuts and alleys until she reacted the...the ferry port...

The pencil line extended from that paper, straight to another directly underneath.

He didn't lift it up, but he could only guess that it was a map of New York.

What else could it be, when this was clearly a draft of her escape plan? The rescue she had had to organise herself, perhaps after giving up hope of anyone looking for her anymore, or of ever being found again?

The butler tried to remember Lane's advice from earlier and just breathe, but it hurt to even try. His lungs were on fire, his body was cold and he could feel himself starting to shake with no way of stopping. He clamped his hand over his mouth to at least stop himself from shouting the pain out of his body, but that barely began to even cover it!

How could he feel anything but pain, when he was looking at the miserable existence of the woman he loved, as it had been for eight whole months, and he hadn't been able to do a single thing to stop what he had started?

"This is where he kept her, when she wasn't…" Lane paused, probably looking for the most tactful way to put unspeakable horror, "… _needed_."

Niles would have spat, if he could. Needed. As if Miss Babcock was some sort of toy that could be taken out of its package for its owner to use. And she'd certainly been used and abused, probably to an extent that he couldn't even imagine. He'd known seeing the horror would be difficult, but he wasn't expecting this.

He wasn't expecting to be in a room where he could still hear her screams, encased in the mundane crap surrounding them.

"We found plenty of food hidden around the cellar, too," Lane said, probably afraid of leaving him to his own thoughts for long. "Our best guess is that she kept some provisions around in case she wasn't fed for long periods of time."

Not for the first time arriving at that cursed house, Niles felt sick. Miss Babcock, a woman who'd grown not knowing what wanting for things was, had had to hide food in order to avoid complete starvation. It was no wonder she was so underweight – this was yet another aspect of the bastard's power trip. The little games he liked to play to keep his sick, twisted mind entertained. All at the expense of the suffering of the woman Niles loved…

It wasn't fair.

None of it was fair.

And he was to blame.

It hurt to think it, but it was true, wasn't it? He'd done this to her. It was his fault she'd been kidnapped. His fault she'd been starved into compliance. His fault she'd been beaten black and blue for not cleaning a stain out of a carpet.

His fault...his fault she'd been...

He shook his head as the tears started to well up and overspill in the corners of his eyes. His heart had long since been shattered into dust by what he'd heard and seen, but now...now there was only a hole where it had once been. A void, filled with nothing but agonising guilt and knowledge that he could never make up for what he'd done...

He could see Miss Babcock's face, so beautiful as always, but contorted in complete agony and terror, as her captor bared down on her and she was forced to–

He quickly shut the image out and buried his face in his hands, unable to contain it anymore.

"This is all my fault!" he cried, the tears hot against his skin. He didn't care - they could scald him and scar his face, and he'd consider it a weak attempt at punishment for what he'd done. "I did this! I'm the reason this happened! If I'd never made her leave that stupid hospital–"

"Niles!" Lane was at his side in an instant, trying to talk to him over the sound of his own earned misery. It was difficult, when he just kept inflicting more verbal punishments on himself. "Niles, listen to me–"

"I'm sorry! I'd go back and change it all in a heartbeat if I could! I swear, I never meant for any of this to happen!"

"But Thomas did!" Lane had to raise her voice and pull his arms away to make him look at her. "You are not to blame for this. We found journals, Niles. A lot of them, with detailed plans of how to kidnap C.C. - her daily routine, changes in her life which might have meant changes in said routine, her address, her license plate - anything he could've used to help him find the perfect moment! It just so happens that the time he chose to carry out his plan was after her visit at the hospital."

Her words were commanding enough to get Niles to stop crying, but he still felt like he was being torn apart from inside. How could he not still be responsible for the plan succeeding, then? If she hadn't left when she had, the plan would've failed! She wouldn't have been around at the time that bastard was, and he'd have missed his opportunity!

And then the other times might have failed, too. They just couldn't say so for sure because he'd been stupid and selfish and he'd let it happen...!

He might have started crying again, trying to argue back in between sobs, had Lane not spoken first.

"C.C. doesn't blame you, Niles," she said, gently but firmly. She then took in a deep breath. "When she was...down here, she spent some time knitting. You saw the basket on the table?"

Niles nodded, wiping his eyes and wondering what that could possibly have to do with anything but willing to listen to the detective anyway.

Lane fished around in her pocket, "Well, we found a lot of notes stuffed in her mattress, detailing loved ones she didn't want to forget, and the scarves she intended to make them. As gifts, for when she finally got out of here."

She finally pulled out a light blue, folded piece of material. A scarf, the butler soon realised, as the detective handed it to him and he unfolded it.

He couldn't help but marvel at the work – the concentration and craftsmanship that had gone into the piece. The colour was absolutely stunning, too – like the sky outside when it got near to the horizon in the early morning, or the colour of the ice at the North Pole.

He wondered which of Miss Babcock's loved ones it was for? Her father, or brother perhaps? It could suit either of their wardrobes. It didn't seem the sort of thing Mr Sheffield would wear...

"This one's yours," Lane said simply, interrupting his thought process.

It took him a moment to register what she'd said, but when it did finally click, as he turned it over and saw the name "Niles" stitched carefully into the work, he let out a soft gasp and an "Oh".

He instinctively pulled it closer to him, letting stray tears fall as he blinked, still not fully believing what he'd heard.

He...he was a loved one? After everything that had happened before and all that he'd done to cause her the greatest suffering she'd ever known, she counted him among that group?! A group that would contain her family and close friends like the Sheffields?!

Part of him wanted to ask why. He hadn't done anything in the time that he'd known her to warrant such an honour, their prank war had been nothing but a thorn in her side most of the time and even if everyone else kept on saying he wasn't to blame for her going missing, he couldn't join them in that belief.

He'd been too heavily tied to it...

But it also ignited a candle sized spark of light and warmth in his heart, knowing that he had that honour. And he knew that he would be sure to thank Miss Babcock for making it, when he went back to her.

He'd thank her for not forgetting him, even if he still thought he deserved to be forgotten.

There was really nothing more to be said after that, and when Lane asked if he was ready to leave, Niles more than readily told her yes. He had seen enough, and the police detective respected that. There were only so many things one person who wasn't trained to deal with them could see before it all became too much.

And as they made their way back up and through the house, Niles kept the scarf clutched against his heart.

It might have all been too much, but he knew he'd had to see it. He'd never have slept properly again if he hadn't.

And if he was going to have any chance of helping Miss Babcock, just as he wanted, then he'd need to be able to rest easy as well.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 25**

Lake City, Texas. That was the God-forsaken shithole he'd wound up in. With a population of 500 people, most of whom barely being able to read or write, Thomas couldn't think of anywhere better to hide.

The road hadn't been easy – not when he knew the police had been (and probably still were) after him. The first step had been stealing a car, which hadn't really represented any trouble for him. Before he'd been sent to juvie, he'd stolen cars galore. Of course, he hadn't been able to drive all the way down to Texas with the same car; he'd stolen many more along the way. He'd moved at night, always making sure to steer clear from the most transited routes and, if he'd needed to rest, stopping only in sleepy, half-dead towns.

He'd faced a number of setbacks on his seven-day long escape, the most important of them being the unlucky son of a bitch who'd recognised him. It had happened in Tennessee, when'd briefly stopped at a dingy motel to rest and have his instant ramen noodle soup. He hadn't really been planning on stealing a new vehicle for a few more miles, but the moment he'd spotted the mousy, middle-aged schlump eyeing him from his own vehicle, his fate had been sealed.

It was what he'd had to do, wasn't it? He couldn't have anybody working out where he was, or tracking him to anywhere else. The police would've sent their helicopters to follow him in a heartbeat, all the way to the next state, and maybe even beyond, until their cars caught up with him! Then where would he be? Surrounded by cops, no gun, no way out.

And then somebody would've let that Lane bitch know, once he'd been forced to surrender (in interests of self-preservation, he would have eventually had to let the cops take him), and he would've had to go back to New York to face the accusations and listen to the whining of his filthy, traitorous bitch of a slut.

None of that would do. And he'd seen it all in the look that schmuck had been giving him from the car.

He'd gone over and used the knife he'd been carrying as "leverage" to force the guy to open the car door and let him in. Then, he'd made him drive. The little asshole turned out to be just as mousy on the inside as he was on the outside and hadn't put up any fight whatsoever. He'd preferred to beg and plead and offer money as they'd driven further and further away from potential witnesses.

That way, nobody was around to see when Thomas had repeatedly slammed the guy's head into his own steering wheel, or when he'd taken out the knife and stabbed the schmuck several times in the chest.

He'd wrapped the body up in a blanket he'd found on the back seat, and had simply hoped the blood wouldn't seep out onto his new upholstery. That was the last thing he'd needed - still didn't need, if anybody found that car out on the dirt track where he'd left it, fatass of an owner dragged from the back and uncovered for the coyotes to deal with.

If the car had been traced back to the guy, even with very little remaining, someone might report having seen Thomas approaching the car...

Again, that was something he couldn't allow.

That was basically the only reason he hadn't already blown the joint for somewhere a thousand times better (like Satan's own asscrack, for instance). There was no way in Hell anybody with an IQ, dollar in their pocket or sense of more than just basic hygiene would ever set foot in this...this backwards, desert cesspit of a town!

How could people possibly live like this?! How could they choose to make a home in an area no larger than a suburb back in New Jersey?! You could practically see from one end of town to the other, with only the interruption of a person walking or a car coming through!

It made him cringe and crease his nose up in disgust. He had to be the only man in town who wasn't related to every single other person, which even then wouldn't have made him the most eligible bachelor around!

Although, getting a look at some of the women there made him think he was better off. They looked like their fathers had been farmers who'd fucked their cattle instead of their wives.

Just seeing their faces, when compared to what he'd been moulding into the most perfectly exquisite shape, disgusted him to the point of rage.

And that rage only got worse every day, when he managed to turn on the TV one channel the town seemed to pick up – or at least, what the flea-pit and cockroach fucking ground of a house he'd bought under a fake Jake could pick up – and it came around to the time for the news.

The same news, every day for the past two weeks. The traitorous bitch's face, spread everywhere like she didn't think she could be touched!

He'd thought that from the first moment he'd seen – the day they'd announced her "return" to "her family and loved ones", and her "slow, but steady recovery".

He'd yelled out wordlessly then, remote thrown like a tomahawk against the wall, imagining the faces of the bastards who were trying to stop him.

Months of work was being destroyed states away by motherfuckers who didn't know how to mind their own fucking business! And as for the bitch who had run away the moment his back was turned...well, she was just going to have to sleep with one eye open, wasn't she?! That way she'd see him coming to get her, and know that her days of ever leaving her room again were done!

He had just managed to stop himself from destroying the entire room. But he had screamed out in anger, whether any of the other Neanderthal neighbours liked it or not.

That little cunt was only going to have to recover from _one_ thing, the moment he got his hands on her!

She'd pay for it all – for leaving him, like she thought she had a choice. For getting the police onto him, when it was none of their fucking business what a man did in his own house to his own property. For landing him in this backwater place, with no way of getting back or getting out without getting caught!

It was all her fault. All of it! And all she would've had to do was stay in her place and then he would truly have been living the life of a king! The life he'd broken the little slut in for, to get her prepared for everything he wanted!

And now...now he was stuck here, burning up like the sun with all the things he wanted to do in revenge, the order he wanted to do them in, and the places he could hide her body if it went wrong.

Not that he intended it to go wrong, when he could go back to hunt down the bitch that had done this – he'd get it right. Oh-so deliciously right, too; the burial spots were more of a backup, on the off-chance that he hit her too hard when giving a correction, or she stopped breathing when he turned her over to fuck her face-to-face so she could see her master, and he ended up grabbing her throat.

He had to plan it all, so they say went exactly as he wanted it to.

He wasn't going to let the little whore escape again.

Still, if his hunt was to be successful, he had to be patient, just like he'd been when he'd first taken her, all those many months ago. He'd take all the time he needed to craft the perfect plan to recover his bitch, and once he had, not even God would be able to find her again. That, he promised.

She would live to serve him, and once she'd outlived her use, he'd end her misery, just like any decent pet owner should do. She'd be his slave and his whore, and her value would be determined by her home-making skills and her ability to fuck. She had nothing else to offer.

Maybe, he could get her to give him an heir – childbirth was, after all, a womanly duty. He'd fuck her over and over until she grew round and, eventually, popped out a son to carry on his legacy. Any useless daughters she birthed him would be quickly disposed of; he wasn't planning on taking care of fuck-holes-to-be. He'd only accept sons, and that was that.

But, again, for any of that to happen, he had to carefully plan his next move. The first thing he would need to do, was find the proper place to build his wife a new and very, _very_ special bedroom. If she'd thought her first room was bad, the cunt was soon going to think of it as a fucking palace in comparison. She would have to shit and pee in a bucket, and she'd sleep on the hard, filthy floor. She would have no entertainment and certainly no lamp for her to illuminate her personal hellhole. It would take years for him to even consider letting her have slightly better living conditions – if she was going to act like a bitch, then he'd treat her like one. She'd be his dog, and she would rue the day she decided to walk away from her master.

Not that the thought of future vengeance was enough to make his current situation better – he was still living in a shithole, he was still on the run, and he still had to cook himself dinner. And by that he meant microwaving one of the frozen meals he'd gotten at the town's only gas-station-slash-convenience-store.

It looked small and pathetic and he already knew it would taste like crap, but it would have to suffice. Until he was back to getting meals fit for a king, from the world's only perfectly moulded and controlled slut, that was.

The six-packs of beer he'd stocked up on while he was at the gas station (he didn't want to have to show his face too often) would wash away the aftertaste. Getting to drink was about the only sense of normalcy and comfort he had, while that bitch Lane was busy sending her dogs after him.

As soon as the microwave had dinged and he had pulled the disgusting-looking little tray free, he took his "meal" over to the one comfortable chair he had in the place – directly in front of the TV.

He switched the set on, turned it to the news, drank his beer and waited.

It wasn't long before the report of his "crime" came on. It was the only thing America seemed to be talking about, although God only knew why. He'd been keeping his whore in line, and it was nobody else's fucking business how he did that! Half the men around the world – real men – would've begged to know his secret, if he hadn't been driven underground by fuck toys who'd forgotten their places and fawning, grovelling saps who didn't deserve their own dicks.

He was watching one of them now, with a glare in his eyes that could've killed, as the report cut to the hospital where they'd taken his slut to recover from her "ordeal". It was that butler; the Sheffields' servant, pushing the bitch in a wheelchair as they left the premises, both bundled up against the bitter cold and her with a wrist in a cast and wearing dark sunglasses.

What the fuck was she wearing _those_ for?! Other than to obviously present herself as the star of the whole fucking show! Who did that whore think she was, grabbing all the attention and then having the utter gall to act, as she came out of that place, like all of it was suddenly making her uncomfortable?!

She was sat rigidly in that chair she didn't even need as the dogsbody pushing it turned a corner, onto the street. Not moving. Not speaking.

At least she'd remembered to get that part right...

The camera immediately zoomed in, as all the reporters around started crowding in and barking out questions that nobody could hear above the noise and nobody even tried to answer, anyway.

"Miss Babcock, how are you feeling?"

"Miss Babcock, do you have anything you want to say to–"

"Mr Brightmore, what is your part in all of–"

Thomas shut out the squawking of the reporters with the remote's mute button. He hated listening to their yapping, especially when it was obvious that none of them understood.

He just watched it in silence, as the sad sack of an errand boy kept walking the slut out of the hospital grounds, occasionally waving a reporter away when they got too close. It looked like it made the slut flinch when they did.

She looked fatter, around her face, from what he could see, too. He lamented and burned inside at that; to think that they'd fed that bitch! After all the work he'd done to get her to a slut's perfect weight?! He'd have to start all over again, when he put his plan into action!

The bastards had tried to ruin his plan, but they were not going to succeed!

Her parents – his father-in-law and mother-in-law, he thought dryly – were walking either side of her, too, apparently _"protecting their sweet, innocent little girl"_ from the media she was so " _terrified_ " of.

Bullshit. All of it.

They were walking the little whore to a waiting limousine, too, and Thomas felt the fires of his anger burn hotter.

An entire limousine, for the "return" of one slut that nobody would've missed if she was gone for good! That was nothing but a waste of a good car, on something that wasn't even fit to lick the dirt off the tyres!

His anger and his thought about the special treatment his whore was getting automatically made him crush the now-empty beer can. He let it drop to the floor and felt himself already aching for another one.

It was getting like mind-numbing heroin, in this backwater hellhole.

Especially with everybody on the side of a bitch they'd soon never see again.

It was a shitshow – all of it. One that was making him burn with an anger so terrible he simply had to hurl his bland dinner across the room. It made a satisfying bang as it impacted against the wall, but the relief was temporary. He had no bitch to clean up after him; _he_ would have to do it himself – just as he would have to cook himself another meal and do the dishes afterwards.

It was lucky Thomas' new home was in a rather secluded area of town. Otherwise, everybody would have heard the deafening roar and string of insults that came out of him, as well as the banging and crashing noises of him trashing the house.

And it was even luckier that hundreds of miles and an entire police force separated him from C.C..

She didn't know it yet, but she was in the most danger she'd ever been.

* * *

"We are nearly there, Kitten. Just hang in there," Stewart said, just as the limo pulled into C.C.'s new home's underground private garage.

Two weeks.

Two whole weeks had gone by since C.C.'s escape.

Two weeks that had felt like a lifetime.

C.C. had spent much of that time sleeping and trying to recover from both her physical injuries and from the bad case of pneumonia that she'd caught after having ventured out during the blizzard. Niles, Stewart, B.B. and, to a lesser degree, Noel, had kept a bedside vigil, taking turns so C.C. would never be on her own.

She had liked that – it was one of the few things she had actually told them. Apart from that, she hadn't spoken much. They'd watch movies with her, binge on whatever junk food C.C. was feeling like that day, and even do crosswords, but that was about it. She didn't want to talk, and they weren't going to force her, even if they were desperate to know what had been done to her.

Judging by her near-constant nightmares – from which she woke up screaming most of the time – the horrors she'd seen and lived through had been far too many…

That was probably why, upon her release, she'd been given a truckload of medication – from antibiotics and antidepressants to the end of the alphabet. She'd also been referred to a therapist that specialised in trauma and PTSD. She would start her treatment in two-weeks time, which was when he'd have his first home visit with her.

And speaking of C.C.'s living arrangements, they had changed drastically from before she'd been kidnapped. Her new home was a beautiful penthouse on 5th Avenue that Stewart had both bought and had refurbished in record time. Lane had also arranged for her to have protection 24/7, and (after much consideration and a long talk with C.C.) it had been decided that Niles would be living with C.C. full time until she was well enough to be on her own. Of course the Sheffields and her family would take turns dropping by to check on her, but she still needed someone to be there with her on a permanent basis.

They'd rather be safe than sorry – with Thomas on the loose, they couldn't be too careful.

The moment when they'd finally told C.C. that Thomas had, in fact, run away, had been one of the worst things they'd ever seen or done. C.C. had had a complete meltdown.

Nobody had ever thought it would stop. Not by itself, anyway. She'd gone almost into a kind of hysterical frenzy, which had started softly but had soon crescendoed into screaming and crying, her frame curling over as though she were trying to defend herself from...something unspeakable, and all the while, the coherent words jumbled in with the terrified, incoherent ones, each proclaiming that he'd be back. That he was coming to get her. Not to let him get her. Please don't let him get her, or make her go back...

They'd promised they'd never let such a thing happen, and had held her, comfortingly and allowing her to cry, while someone discreetly called for a nurse to pump in something to calm her down, through her IV line. Ten or fifteen minutes later, she was in a medication-induced sleep. It was over.

But the incident had haunted them ever since. Not that they'd ever talk about it, even amongst themselves – there was no point. They knew who she meant, and they knew where she was talking about. And none of them intended on letting her go anywhere without them, anyway.

This new penthouse was the start of a new level of security. They'd had to find a well-hidden back entrance and go past a gate with a guard just to be permitted entry.

Luckily, all the building's staff knew to be on the lookout, and they'd been quickly waved through.

The parking lot wasn't too busy – most people were out, or maybe still at work. They pulled up in an available space (none were big enough for a limo, so that was just in the middle of the lot, as close to the stairs and elevator as they could get), Stewart quickly instructing the driver just to stop the car there. He didn't know when they'd be back, but that didn't matter. The driver knew to call, or circle the block and come back around, until his employers were ready to leave.

Everybody sat in the back in silence, for what seemed to be a moment suspended in eternity. It was as though they were all contemplating the same thing at once – that this was it? The start of a new, protected life for C.C.? That she was safe, in this new home, and they were ready to make it everything she hadn't had in nearly a year?

If they were, they eventually reached a silent agreement, and started to shift in their seats again.

"I'll get out and get the chair set up," Stewart said, before turning to C.C.'s mother. "B.B., why don't you go through and up to the lobby, to see about getting the spare keys, and see if there's any mail arrived?"

B.B. nodded silently, before unbuckling her seatbelt, getting out and going to do as he'd suggested.

Stewart then turned to C.C. and Niles.

"You two just sit and relax. We'll get upstairs in no time."

He waited for C.C. to nod before getting out of the car, making sure to direct one last comforting smile in her direction. He hoped she appreciated it, because if she did, she didn't show. She was deep in thought, which wasn't really good these days…

C.C.'s mind was a dangerous place for her to be in for too long.

Niles didn't try to make small talk – she knew she didn't like it. More often than not she preferred them to sit quietly together, hands held tightly together. She wasn't ready to open up, but she appreciated his presence. It soothed her.

It wasn't long until Stewart had prepared the chair. He helped her into it while Niles got her hospital bag and the blanket that she'd used to cover her legs when coming out of the hospital. He offered the latter to her, which she readily took and wrapped around her frail form.

Together, they made their way to the elevator. Stewart punched the first floor button; B.B. was waiting for them there, spare keys in hand and a small stack of letters for Niles to go over. For security reasons, Lane had suggested that the apartment should be in Niles' name rather than C.C.'s – Thomas, being the seasoned stalker he was, would most likely try and find any new address linked to C.C. or any of her other family members. Stewart had agreed and had named Niles as the owner. He'd also given him access to his own bank account, so he could pay for whatever they needed while he was looking after C.C..

As a little extra, Stewart would be paying Niles fifty-thousand dollars a month for his kindness, given that he'd had to quit his job to take care of C.C.. The butler had protested countless times, but the older Babcock simply wouldn't have any of it. Stewart was well aware Niles was taking care of his Kitten out of love, and that was something he felt should be rewarded. The least he could do for him, was give him financial security.

"Let's get going," B.B. said. "We need to get C.C. home as soon as possible."

Stewart nodded, stepping aside to allow her into the elevator with them, before pressing the button for the top floor and letting the doors close.

"Alright, then. Let's get moving."

He knew just how anxious she was, to see their little girl get behind a closed, lockable door on the top floor of the most secure apartment complex their side of anywhere.

C.C.'s disappearance had hit B.B. so hard, she would have willingly never slept another wink, if it meant making sure her baby never went anywhere unwillingly again. They all would have. But, luckily for the health of everybody involved, that didn't have to happen.

They had a support system, in the form of each other. They were a family, and they looked out for one another. Protected one another. Stepped up when someone had to fall back, for whatever reason.

And he more than willingly included Niles in that, too. He wouldn't have let anybody he didn't consider family to look after the most precious thing in his life, even if the butler probably would've protested that, as well.

The man was too good for his own good sometimes. But that made him the perfect person to look after and love his little girl.

Even taking a sneak peek while the elevator went up, the businessman could see Niles doing little things that might as well have shouted his feelings from the rooftops; straightening up the wheels of the chair so that it wouldn't get even the tiniest bit stuck or caught on the way out, quietly asking her if she was too warm with the blanket and if she wanted him to carry it, suggesting that he should make some tea when they got in...

And the look of adoration he wore might've been such second nature that he'd forgotten he was wearing it at this point, but it wasn't lost on Stewart.

Still, the older man kept it to himself. He didn't want to embarrass the guy, after all, and more besides, there was no good, vital reason to bring it up at a time like this.

The elevator sound system chimed softly as they hit the top floor, the doors opening out into a short corridor with a plush carpet and walls decorated with framed pencil sketches.

"Here we are," Stewart announced, gesturing for Niles and C.C. to go first. "After you two; it's only right and fair, after all. Besides, this is your home now."

"Thank you, sir," Niles smiled at him, grateful that the man was giving him this opportunity, even when he couldn't feel like he possibly deserved it. "It truly is appreciated."

"Yeah, Daddy..." C.C. agreed quietly, reaching out and gripping her father's hand briefly. "It means a lot."

Stewart tried not to let any sign that he was getting choked up show, but it proved difficult as he and B.B. followed Niles and C.C. into the corridor.

"There is no need for either one of you to thank me - for this, or for anything else, for that matter. This is no less than you deserve, after the...it's what you need. And I'm your father, Kitten, so there's no way I'm ever going to deny you what you need."

That was why he'd picked the apartment they were now approaching, B.B. getting the keys ready to open the door, so that Niles could push C.C. inside.

The door sounded at least a little reinforced when B.B. pushed it open, but the sudden mental image of a fortress that Niles and C.C. both had in their minds at the noise disappeared as soon as they saw the place.

The whole apartment was sleek, stylish, and open, made light and airy by white walls tastefully decorated with pop art (perhaps actual Lichtensteins?) to serve as bursts of colour. The living area, with its plush, grey furniture and off-white rug, flowed almost gracefully into a large dining room with a table complete for the whole family, and outside the window, a huge balcony waited with plant pots lined up along the edges, as though they were stood to attention, ready for spring to arrive and the area to come alive with rainbow explosions of flowers. In the corner, overlooking the city, it opened out into a rooftop terrace with a currently-covered pool, a couple of cushioned sun loungers and a barbecue grill that Niles could've sworn was bigger than him.

They stared in awe as they went inside, the chair moving easily across the hardwood floors.

B.B. and Stewart followed them in, making sure to close and lock the door again.

"The kitchen is just through there," B.B. said, pointing delicately down in the direction opposite the living area. "And there are four bedrooms, two of which are already prepared for you, if you'd like to see them."

"Would you like to do that now, Kitten? Or would you like a cup of coffee or tea?" Stewart offered, gently placing a hand on C.C.'s back.

He immediately regretted his decision, as no sooner had his palm been laid flat near her shoulder, than C.C. had leapt out of her chair with a sharp gasp, combined with a strangled, but nonetheless bloodcurdling screech.

"Get away from me!"

Immediately, all the others in the room heard alarm bells going off in their heads, accompanied by a dozen questions not one of them had the slightest idea how to answer.

What had just happened?! Had she been asleep in the chair without them realising, and Stewart's hand had startled her back into being awake? No, it couldn't have been that – she'd been perfectly awake just now, when they'd come in!

Was this a flashback? But caused how?

Not one of them knew. All they could think about doing was trying to calm her out of it!

"C.C.! C.C., it's alright, dear," her mother tried to speak over the sounds of her daughter sobbing. Sobbing as she cowed away, not looking at any of them. "You are with us; there is no need to be afraid."

Unfortunately, as she'd said this, she'd also reached out to try and pull her daughter into a hug. By placing her hand on her back.

"I said, stay away!" C.C. screamed, ripping B.B.'s hand from her back and bolting from the room, her crying fading as it hurried down the hall.

But the others weren't far behind, their minds screaming more questions than they would have given limbs to be able to answer, and all of them calling her name.

"C.C.! Kitten?! What's the matter?!"

"C.C., dear! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it, please come back...!"

"Miss Babcock, please, come back! Please, tell us what's wrong!"

All their pleading was met with her disappearing behind the bathroom door, slamming it shut and locking it.

Their footfalls slowed uselessly to a halt in the corridor, but Stewart paced forward a few more, to go to the door and quietly knock.

"C.C...?" he asked hopefully. When she didn't answer, he tried again. "Kitten, what's the matter? We're only trying to hel–"

"Everybody just...leave me alone!"

The force of her cried demand made Stewart back away from the door, his heart sinking as he realised she meant it. He didn't know what would happen, if they tried to demand, or force the door open somehow. It could be much worse than things already were...

He turned and looked helplessly at the others, shaking his head.

It all proved too much for B.B., who burst into tears and fled dejectedly, back towards the living area.

That only left Stewart and Niles there in the corridor, not knowing which way to turn. They obviously couldn't get C.C. to come out – the damage, whatever was causing it, was too great.

All they had was hope that C.C. would calm down by herself, and then tell them what had gone on, perhaps opening up more about the things that had happened when she had been gone.

Both had a feeling it would be a long wait.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 26**

C.C. didn't know how long it had been since she'd locked herself in the bathroom. An hour? Two, perhaps? She didn't know, and she really didn't care. She'd curled up inside the bathtub as soon as her parents and Niles had walked away from the bathroom door – she felt safe in there, and there were no unwanted hands on her body.

Though, if she was being honest, she felt awful about having reacted like she did. She hadn't meant to lash out at her parents, but the thought of anyone touching her back… it was simply too much to bear. The mere idea was enough to send her head reeling and for her heart to pound against her chest. It wasn't something she could control or even explain…

Well, maybe she could explain it. Whenever the…events had happened, Thomas would force her face down on the bed, climb on her and he'd keep her in place by pressing down on her upper back. There had been exceptions, but more often than not that's how it had happened.

She didn't think she could tell this to her parents or Niles. Hell, she wasn't even sure she could face them, after her outburst. She was ashamed of her behaviour – it certainly would have gotten her a correction, had she done that to Thomas.

She curled up even tighter, wishing that the whole world could just go away. Or disappear. Or maybe that she would do one of those things, and never have to get hurt or hurt anybody else with her own words again...

The thought sent tears welling up and flooding out of her eyes, and they dripped onto the cool acrylic of the bathtub.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out everything.

But she couldn't. There was something disturbing that attempt – a small noise, coming from just outside the doorway.

It sounded like something padding along, little claws tip-tapping on the flooring, stopping once every so often before it would start again. She let her eyes drift in the direction of the door, the closer it got. Eventually, she'd sat up in the bath, letting her entire line of sight go to the door.

And then, it was there. A tiny shadow under the doorframe. And the shadow was accompanied by a not-all unfamiliar noise.

 _Sniff,sniff,sniff,sniff,sniff,sniff,sniff!_

C.C. began to stand up out of the bath, her face frozen halfway to a smile.

It...it sounded like–

A tiny orange snout poked its way under the crack momentarily, then disappeared again, to be replaced by whines and scratching.

Her face thawed, and the smile burst through like spring did after winter.

"Chester!"

She scrambled the rest of the way out of the bath, for the moment no longer caring about anything but throwing open the door to an excitable little Pomeranian, who yelped and barked and whined at the sight of his owner, circling her until she managed to reach down and scoop him up in her arms.

Her face was immediately assaulted by a warm, impossibly little tongue, and she started to beam even as more tears fell.

Her Chester. Her little dog, who'd clearly missed her just as much as she'd been longing for him!

"I missed you too, oh, my baby...!"

She could barely believe it! What had been happening while she was gone? Had somebody been taking care of her dog for her...?

Somebody must have – he looked well-fed, happy, lively, his coat was in good condition and his eyes were bright. Although that might have been because his owner had just come back...

And all from a place he'd never know or understand.

But now wasn't the time to get into that! Somebody had to have brought him there – he hadn't been indoors when they'd come, and nobody had brought him with them in the limo!

"Where did you come from...?" she crooned, hugging her dog close and not minding his wet tongue or cold nose on her cheek. "Huh? Where have you been...?!"

A loud, nasal voice coming from the direction of the living area told her every answer she needed to know.

Nanny Fine and the Sheffields. Of course, they had played their part in helping where they could! They clearly hadn't been about to let her down, even if the worst thing they could imagine had come to life.

She grinned down at Chester, "Looks like we've got company, little guy..."

She didn't know if she was ready to see anybody else yet, though. It was overwhelming enough, with the doctors and nurses and other people she'd made herself be around that day!

Not to mention that, if she walked into the living room, she'd have to face her parents and Niles – three people whom she'd hurt and had probably made worried sick. She had heard her mother cry when she'd locked herself in the bathroom…

God, Thomas had been right about her! She was a selfish bitch…

A horrible, selfish bitch that hurt everyone around her.

She didn't want them to be hurt by her. Even if it was an accident and she hadn't meant to lash out, she'd still been the one to cause the damage. That alone was enough to warrant the name.

It was best that she just...went away. She avoided using the word "disappeared" that time, because it was the word they'd used to describe her being trapped at Thomas' house.

That was the absolute last place on Earth she wanted to go. But that didn't mean she couldn't think of anywhere else that would take her away from everybody she might hurt, or disappoint, or make angry. She wasn't without those sorts of means, and she knew how to put them into practice.

But a realisation hit her stomach the moment she tuned her ears back into the quiet murmuring of discussion, coming from the living area.

They - everybody who'd come with her to the penthouse, as well as her brother and the Sheffields - weren't going to let her do that, were they? Her father had specifically chosen the building for its security, they'd all agreed to visit and come hang out with her, and they had police protection in the building around the clock.

They'd all said all along that they'd keep her safe. That this was what this new arrangement would do...

It was as if, the moment she'd returned, they'd built a wall around her - huge and strong, and warm inside from love and welcoming she didn't deserve.

But that was just it. She didn't deserve any of it, no matter how much they tried to tell her that she did. That they were her family, were there for her, loved her...

She didn't see how, or why. Obviously, she understood the whole "We're your family" thing, but that was just obligation on their part. Of course you'll put up with whatever mess your relatives have made of their lives, if they're close enough!

If she wasn't their daughter, she'd be on her own. Just as broken, and filthy, and worthless as she was, only that time without the excuse of a surname to make herself a burden to them.

That was all she was, and all she would ever be. Each and every single ugly thing Thomas had said, as painful as it all was combined, had been the truth. And now, it was all she could hear in her head, all at once.

She'd been nothing but a stupid, useless idiot, in running back to the people she knew wouldn't want or need her. Not really. Whatever would they need an unloveable, broken fuck toy for? She couldn't do anything for them that they didn't have already anyway, and they'd be carrying her for the rest of their lives, even as they grew older and more feeble and frail...

She was going to be a baggage to them, forever.

A weight on their shoulders. A problem. A fucked-up waste of space that shouldn't have ever come back in the first place...

The last one stung, filling her eyes with more tears, but she knew it was true - just like everything else the monster had said. She could've gone anywhere once she'd left the house, but she'd chosen to come running back to the people who would have been doing just fine without her? To do what? Intrude on their lives and make her the focus of all their attention?

That wasn't fair. And it just went to show how selfish she really was. Just as selfish as Thomas had spat at her every time he'd needed to "correct" her.

There was only one thing she could think to do, to make it right. To not be selfish anymore. She had to leave, right away, and never come back. Find somewhere else and start over, where none of them would ever be burdened or hurt by her, ever again.

So, taking Chester in her arms and whispering to him to be quiet – of course, she would bring her dog with her; she wouldn't force them to look after him anymore – she began to sneak along through the penthouse.

There had to be a fire escape somewhere...

The closer she got to the living room, the louder she could hear them all, obviously discussing her.

"I really don't know what could've happened to her – one minute, I was asking about coffee or tea, the next, she was just...screaming...!" her father sighed.

Somebody settled a cup down on the coffee table.

"It has to be trauma of some kind," Niles piped up gravely, sounding lower than he ever had in his entire life. "We don't know what...happened, in that place..."

And they never would, either, C.C. thought to herself, blocking out the sound of their talk. She didn't need to hear them chatting so casually about how fucked up she was – she already knew that. It also hurt too badly to have to hear them confirm that she was a problem, and had shown herself up that way earlier.

But that didn't mean that they were wrong, which was the most painful part of all.

It needed to be said, though. It was a wake-up call. And it meant they were practically giving her the green light to go, in confirming how much of a burden and a bother she would be to them.

She also tried desperately not to hear the sniffles coming from her mother, who was still struggling with tears.

Once she was gone, there wouldn't be a need for anymore tears. She wouldn't be able to hurt them enough (at all) to make them happen.

She turned off silently into the dining room, where she also happened to spot her mother's purse on the table.

She bit her lip, considering. She didn't have access to her own funds right then, but she was going to need money. And it wasn't as though her parents were tight for cash, was it?

They could track the credit card movements, if they wanted to know she was alright. But they wouldn't have to bother with looking after her themselves anymore.

She grabbed the purse, clutching it tightly in her hands and Chester in her arms as she hurried through the kitchen and headed straight for the back stairs - the fire exit.

She was through in an instant.

She eventually heard a voice in her head - an echo of both Thomas' anger and her own frustration and despair - snap at her louder than the wind whistling around the buildings.

" _Just pick one, you stupid, worthless piece of crap!"_

That sent her running, picking a direction aimlessly but setting out, nonetheless.

As long as she went, leaving behind anybody who she might demand from, or scream at, or leave broken-hearted, it didn't matter which direction she headed in, anyway.

* * *

"Miss Babcock? Miss Babcock, are you alright in there?"

Niles had been knocking on the bathroom door for the past fifteen minutes to no avail. It had been well over two hours since Miss Babcock had first locked herself in there – more than enough time for her to calm down. They didn't want to pressure her into coming out, but she was still fragile; spending two hours inside a cold bathroom after a hospital stay was, at best, a questionable idea and a ticket back to the ER at worst.

"Miss Babcock, please open up," he pleaded with her when he still got no answer. "We are sorry for what happened, and I promise you that you won't have to talk about it if you do not wish to…"

Niles waited for an answer, ear pressed to the door and heart nearly skipping a beat. He got nothing. Nothing at all.

"Miss Babcock, please," he insisted, a sinking feeling in his stomach. "I promise you we–"

Having accidentally leaned too heavily against the bathroom door, Niles suddenly found himself falling through it, stumbling with a yelp when the thing opened up without a hint of resistance.

The door wasn't locked, and the room was empty.

"Miss Babcock...?" he tried again anyway, weakly as he regained his composure, just in case she had unlocked the door but not left.

Perhaps she'd curled up in the bath and fallen asleep? A quick check proved his theory incorrect. The shower, maybe? Again, opening the doors showed him he was wrong.

He felt dread creeping into the bottom of his stomach, ready to take root and sprout upwards. The room had been vacated, and he had no idea when.

That meant he had no idea where Miss Babcock had gone, for potentially hours.

"Miss Babcock!" he cried out, letting his voice reverberate off the tiled walls. "Miss Babcock, where are you?!"

There was no answer, even when he dashed out into the corridor to hear better, there was no answer from that familiar, deep voice.

There was, however, an answer from a different voice, as Maxwell, Fran, Stewart and B.B. all came hurrying over. Their friends had come over to bring Chester back, and had stayed to hear more of what had been going on.

And all they found was their former butler turning to and fro, panicking and trying to search at the same time, but ultimately getting nowhere.

"What the Devil are you shouting about, Niles?" Maxwell asked, looking into the bathroom where the others had explained she'd been. "Where's C.C.?"

"I don't know!" Niles replied, the answer feeling like some horrible confession.

A collective, panicked gasp went up among the group, their eyes widening and jaws dropping open. How could he not know? He'd been explaining only moments ago that she had locked herself in after some sort of panic, and they hadn't heard from her since!

She had to still be there, didn't she...?!

"Whaddya mean, ya don't know?!" Fran exclaimed. "Wasn't she in the bathroom?!"

In his own despair, their friend started to rake through his own hair, feeling like he could tear clumps of it out.

"She was, but I went to check on her and the door was unlocked, and I couldn't find her anywhere in there–"

"My baby is missing again!" B.B. wailed, bursting into fresh tears as she became overwhelmed by everyone else's panic.

Trying to keep some sense of order and reason, even with his own fear creeping up inside, Stewart stepped in, his hand out in a halting motion.

"Now, let's all just hang on a second!" he managed to attract their attention. "She can't be far – she probably went to one of the bedrooms to calm down and fell asleep! If we search the penthouse, I'm sure we'll find her!"

He wasn't actually sure at all, but he'd had to say something. Especially when he'd seen B.B. start to have what could become the equal-for-worst day of her life.

Their little girl had been so terrified when they'd touched her back, spoken to her...he didn't want to think that she'd meant it when she'd said "Leave me alone".

Soon, everybody was searching the entire apartment, from top to toe, frantic and calling out her name to warn her if they were coming into a room. They left the living area – they would've noticed if she'd been that way. But all the bedrooms and other bathrooms were thrown into chaos as people looked; under beds, in wardrobes (ripping through the clothes already stored away) and showers, under tables and behind sofas. The kitchen came up empty, and so did the dining room.

Even though it shouldn't have. But B.B. noticed that her purse was missing from where she'd left it on the table, and Fran – who'd been yelling out all over the house – found that Chester hadn't come running to see what all the noise was about in the meantime.

When the entire penthouse had been thoroughly turned over, and the only three things found to be missing were B.B.'s purse, Chester, and C.C. herself, that was when Stewart let the fear take over.

It was a panic that spread across the group like wildfire.

C.C. had gone missing, again! Right from under all their very noses, this time! From her own apartment, where she should've been surrounded by other people!

They had to start looking for her outside. But how? She could've been gone for hours before they'd even realised and with another hour or so on top of that from where they'd looked, the city-wide search they'd have to organise could turn up nothing!

Though how else were they supposed to find her? It hadn't worked before but they had a time advantage on their side now, didn't they? They knew she'd gone and it hadn't been a whole day without anybody realising, this time!

The dark cloud of remembering Thomas was still out there somewhere put a damp shadow over that ray of hope. The monster could've been anywhere, still lurking and waiting for a chance to strike. What if he found her simply by bad luck, or what if somebody had tipped him off about where she might be found?

It was hard to imagine someone doing something so vile as pointing a kidnapper and rapist in the direction of his victim, but it wasn't impossible. Especially if under bribe or threat...

It didn't bear thinking about! They had to do something, right away – to get there before anybody else could!

To get C.C. back, before she was gone for good, this time.

"What do we do now?!" Fran said.

"Maybe we should split – go out and look for her," suggested Maxwell. "She can't be far away."

"How do you know that?!" said B.B.. "You have no way to know–"

"Yes I do," Maxwell cut her off. "We brought Chester around half and hour ago. Since Chester isn't here, that means C.C. took him, which would suggest she left between our arrival and now. She can't have gone too far in barely thirty minutes."

There was a thoughtful lull in the conversation then. Maxwell's reasoning made a lot of sense. C.C. had taken Chester, and the Sheffields hadn't arrived too long ago. Considering the former producer's frail state of mind, she probably wouldn't have taken a bus or a cab – the only thing she seemed to hate more than crowded spaces these days, was being in a car with a stranger.

It brought back too many bad memories…

That, of course, meant that she had to be travelling by foot. And, if she was travelling by foot, she couldn't be far away. Not when she was so weak still.

"You are right…you are right…" Stewart said, raking his hair, just like Niles had been doing a few moments ago. "Then we need to split and–"

"No! No, we need to call Lane first," Niles said. "She has men outside the building – one might have seen something."

That all made more sense than anything else had ever since they'd arrived, and nobody had any objections to it. How could they? The police could find C.C. in no time at all - better than any of them ever could!

It even made Stewart look up from the start of his anxiety attack.

"Niles, my boy, you might just be the smartest person in this room," he said, looking like he was holding back from tears. "Call Lane right away – the phone's by the front door. Speed dial one."

The former butler did exactly as he was asked, punching in the single digit and waiting with baited breath, everyone around him staring hopefully as the dial tone buzzed on and off.

He nearly shouted out in surprise when somebody picked up the receiver on the other end.

"Lane speaking."

The police officer sounded just as ready for action as always, which was fortunate, because she'd really need to be for this.

"Detective Lane?" Niles gripped the phone tighter. "We need your help. Miss Babcock has disappeared...of her own accord, this time…"


End file.
